The 100
by Dunno12345
Summary: After Mount Weather, many things have changed, both inside and out. But when Clarke returns to Camp Jaha more of it follows, as a new threat rises, one that threatens not only the Sky People but the Grounders as well. (Slow-burn Bellarke story included)
1. The Return

**This is my version of the 100, after the events of Mount Weather. Please read and review!**

The smell of pine soon turned to the bitter one of smoke, laced with the familiar tang of metal and electricity. It seemed to thrum dimly through the ground, a vena cava vein pumping power back to its heart. The compound hadn't changed much. Metal still penetrated from the ground like claws, forming twisted arches in an almost elegant yet morbid way. The fence still lined the perimeter, greedily lapping up the electrical current.

Clarke took a deep breath, watching figures clothed in dark gear roam beyond the gates, milling about their day, the same as they'd done so during the one she'd left them on.

That day. That choice.

How could one decision hold so much blood? Hers was overflowing with it, spilling over the brim and Clarke still couldn't bring herself to view the outcome as others did; as a victory. As a win.

In saving some lives, she'd cost others theirs. In protecting her people, she'd killed someone else's. Accountability was inevitable. Whether Clarke had pulled that lever or not, someone would have bled for it. She knew that finally, after spending night after night trying to devise some other possibility out of the multitudes. Something she missed, one choice that could have spared them.

But that offered her nothing but torment. The Mountain Men were dead and Clarke had been their escort to that fate. She could accept the death of Dante. Could accept the death of his son. She could heal from those involved she'd killed. What she couldn't bear, were the innocents taken down with them. Women, children...people who'd done nothing but live in a shelter of stone. Children that knew nothing of the danger of Outside, who were still young and pure enough to dream.

She hadn't had a choice, but Clarke would not find a way to try and justify it. And she would not let that guilt go. Those children deserved more than to be so easily forgotten.

It took a couple dozen meters for her to be noticed. One voice cried above the others, signaling to the stranger approaching over the hill. Clarke kept going, dismissing the concern of being possibly shot on sight. Very little of her cared. Everything was a cry of pain, every movement issued some burst of agony but Clarke pushed through it.

When she reached the gate, something in her chest tightened. It was the same place.

But it also wasn't, because it wasn't the camp that had changed. It was Clarke.

"State your name!" One of the patrols shouted. So they'd gotten crow nests. A minor change, then.

Clarke tilted her chin up. "Griffin," she called to him. "Clarke Griffin."

The man's eyebrows furrowed and he stepped away. But before he could do much, someone was barreling to the gate, shouting at the patrols to open it.

Abby.

As soon as they'd abided, Clarke was enveloped in an embrace, one tight enough to crack ribs. Her mother gripped her firmly and only pulled back to stare at her. "Clarke..." she cupped her daughter's cheek. Clarke laid hers over Abby's, tears clouding her vision. "Hi, Mom."

"Where...when..." Abby cleared her throat and composed herself, but Clarke already saw the questions burning in her eyes. Before she could say anything, Abby hugged her again. "Six months, Clarke. Most of us thought you'd been..."

Killed. Slaughtered. Picked off by a wild beast. And she almost had been, more than once and in various forms. But Clarke just offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, one that felt empty.

Abby took a stiff step backwards, clearing her throat and swiping at the tears that had escaped down her cheek. "I'll need a report of your whereabouts," she said, ever the dutiful authoritative figure. "But you should recoup. Get some rest. Later, when you're -"

"Clarke?"

A gruff voice sounded behind her and she turned around, facing a tall man with curly hair longer than she remembered it being. Clarke's smile felt a bit more genuine as she stared at Bellemy, a mound of wood collected in his hands. The sight of him bombarded her with flashbacks, the most prominent one being of goodbyes.

 _May we meet again._

The sight of him warmed her, and she wanted to hug him. But six months had passed and Clarke wasn't sure what borders had been laid within that amount of time. She licked her lips uncertainly. "Hey, Belle-"

Before she could finish, Bellemy dropped the wood. It cracked against the ground but he was already walking to her, sweeping her into a tight embrace. Clarke responded instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck and smiling into the crook of it. Now this was familiar.

He pulled back, still smiling slightly as he scrutinized her attire. Dirt caked boots. Torn shirt. Grimy pants with one knee wrapped in a piece of cloth. "What happened there?" He gestured at it with a nod.

An image lit up like gunfire. One of footprints meandering through snow, stained red. Clarke shook the picture away. "Animal attack," she lied. "Caught me off guard." And luckily for her, the jagged edge of the blade she'd been cut with would appear animal enough.

Bellamy looked at her. Really looked at her. The kind of look that made her uncomfortable, because it told her he found something out of place in her eyes. Something that whispered wrong.

But to her relief, she was suddenly being noticed. Clusters of the once 100 flocked to her, but each kept their distance, wary of the ad months that distanced them. All except those she called friends. Monty hugged her, as did Octavia. Raven wasn't a hugger and instead gave a nod of acknowledgement which Clarke returned. Jasper hadn't surfaced and she wasn't surprised by that.

In taking the lives of the Mountain Men, Clarke hadn't spared her people of everything. Jasper still grieved for Maia, a different kind of Inside girl that had played a vital role in saving them all. Clarke had wished to do the same for her, but instead, she had taken away her very chance at it. And she wasn't about to blame Jasper for the resentment.

"So where'd you go?" Monty asked, looking at her expectantly. Others nodded in mutual eagerness for her to share. "Did you find anything?" someone else added.

Clarke blinked and the world seemed to fall away, replaced by a different one, of the sounds of crunching footsteps and erratic heartbeats, encased in a ruthless cold. The memory faded just as quickly as it'd come and Clarke met the waiting eyes of her people, feeling the weight of each question bearing down on her shoulders.

"We haven't seen it all," she settled on. "Not even close."

* * *

Clarke was lying on the small cot inside her assigned tent when the flap if it rustled and broad shoulders emerged. Bellemy cast a look over his shoulder before meeting her eyes. "I need to talk to you," he said simply.

Clarke didn't want to talk, but she owed him this. Maybe when she'd left, Bellemy had wanted to go off on his own as well, but was too bound here to do so. What binds she'd had, Clarke had easily severed, one being with him. She wouldn't pretend she hadn't left him, because she had. She'd left them all.

Clarke pushed up with her elbows and sat at the edge of her makeshift bed. She nodded stiffly. "Yeah?"

His jaw flexed, the muscle there going taut. "What did you cross paths with out there?"

Clarke sighed. "Bellemy-"

"I need to know of the possible threats posed, Clarke," he answered stoically. "I've been placed as the head of the guard. And as a person in that position, I need to ask you."

"Head of the guard?" She let surprise leak into her tone. "When?"

But Bellemy saw through the tactic. "Don't change the subject. Look, in case you didn't already know, Octavia isn't exactly apt to follow curfew hours and spends a lot of time out there with Lincoln. And I," he enunciated the next words. "Need to know what might be a threat to her. As a guard And as a brother."

Clarke wet her lips, clutching her hands together uncomfortably. It wasn't fair to keep anyone in the dark. But Bellemy was far from anyone. He was a person she was tied to more than just by friendship alone, but by blood and sacrifice and the strain of choice. He was burdened with the same grief as her and with that came some sort of connection, tethering them together in that one defining moment in that room. Because unlike anyone else, Bellemy understood the cost it took to pull that lever.

Clarke took a shaky breath, trying to find some way to rid herself of the memories that ran rampant in the day and haunted her at night. She gazed up at him. "I'd gone to seek refuge with the Boat People," she began, and Bellemy took a seat beside her, watching her intently. "They were kind. They took me in and gave me a place to stay."

A warmer image came to her mind, colored blue and steepled with archaic vessels lining a moor.

"A few months passed until they felt they could really trust me. At first, they just assumed I was a Sky Representative," she scoffed at that. "But then we shared stories, or I did, and they started seeing me as an asset. So I was permitted to speak with their leader, Konuu, but he wouldn't go for an alliance that quickly. Loyalty has to be proven and I was offered a way to prove it to them."

Bellemy said nothing, remaining stony and silent next to her as she continued.

Clarke's eyes fell to her hands. "Konuu feared an attack from the Ice Nation, and since I spoke English, he thought I could pass as a rogue tribe member."

At that, Bellemy interrupted. "What do you mean rogue?" He asked, voice hard.

"Rogue as in having no distinctive tribal markings. The Boat People get a branding above their left shoulder. So anyone arriving at the Ice Nation with markings would instantly be killed."

"And the Ice Nation speaks some English?"

Clarke nodded and he dipped his chin as a gesture to keep going. Her hands started shaking but she clenched them tighter to keep it from showing. "The agreement was that Konuu would return an alliance if I infiltrated the Ice Nation and learned of any premeditated attack."

Bellemy's voice turned cold. "They sent you in alone?"

"I sent you into Mount Weather alone," Clarke pointed out. "They wouldn't send anyone else at the risk of more than just one person being exposed. Which would just lead to the Ice Nation finding out it was a network of spies that they'd either trace back to the Boat tribe or just wind up torturing innocent people in the process. And I wouldn't do that. So yes, I went alone. The Nation is deep in the mountains and took a good three weeks to reach."A beat of silence passed as the chill seemed to ghost over her skin.

Bellemy covered his hand over hers and stared at her encouragingly. "And when you got there?"

Clarke met his gaze. "When I got there, they questioned me. I repeated what I'd practiced to tell them and after a few days,they seemed satisfied. I stayed there under supervision for..." Clarke tried to recount the time. "Around a month, I think, until I was allowed to go places without a guard. That's when I started digging, trying to find a way to break in to the Ice Queen's chambers."

At his look, Clarke smirked. "Yeah, she's really called that. Anyway, it took a couple weeks to come up with the right plan and time. Along with an escape. I put it into action on a festival night they have annually. Something about a winter solace. But I managed to get inside and find some papers."

Another memory. A dark room illuminated by candlelight, tossing leering shadows against the walls.

"I wouldn't take them with me because that would only implicate the Boat People. And I'm grateful I didn't, because when I was sneaking my way back out, I was spotted by a villager."

Bellamy's hand tightened over hers and she tried to smile, but it felt acerbic."It helps when you're only one person escaping, and I was lucky, because I got away...alive."

His eyes dropped to her bandaged leg and Clarke gave an imperceptible nod. "I couldn't return to the Boat People, because I wouldn't run the risk of them being found out. Not after...Not after Mount Weather." She turned fully to Bellemy now, staring into his molten brown eyes and squeezing his hand back. "These people are strong, Bellemy, not restricted by air, or radiation. And you can't beat them this time."

Bellemy stood up, absorbing her words in an instant, already morphing into strategist soldier. "No," he argued, shaking his head. "We can. If it comes to a fight, we'll make allies."

But Clarke was already denying it. "No," she hoped her voice sounded stern. "You can't."

 _He hasn't seen what I've seen._

But Bellemy wasn't listening. "Clarke, if you can get in and out like that, and they're only advantage is number, we can overrun them."

Clarke had no other option. She stood up and turned away from him, just enough for her to discard her jacket and lift the hem of her shirt. She angled it fully at Bellemy, exposing her back to him.

Or what once was her back. Now the skin over it rose in hideous, grotesque scars, both new and old, some healed, others bleeding, all crisscrossing over her flesh like some morbid version of tic tac toe.

Then she returned her gaze to him, his jaw now slack, eyes wide. "No, Bellemy," she said. "You can't."


	2. Aftermath

**Okay, one thing that really gets to me is some fanfiction is the jumping straight into a relationship between Bellemy and Clarke. I want it to mount. Right now there's the connection and the mutual trust they have and I want to use that and build on it with actions and the chemistry they already have. I'm trying to keep them as in-character as possible, and in my opinion, dropping them instantly into that dependency phase is not them. They view each other as confidants and for the beginning of this fanfiction, I'm keeping that component. Because it's the foundation, but the incident with Mount Weather is what really linked them. And I will play on that. So I hope you enjoy this. Please review!**

Bellemy stepped out of the tent stiffly, running a hand through his hair. He needed space to think, to work out the story Clarke had retold, but more importantly, he wanted the image of broken skin out of his head.

What kind of people formed the Ice Nation? What sort of brutal tribe would have the capability to inflict that? But it was a question that had no answer. People did what they could to survive, and sometimes, that meant becoming less than human.

He wasn't defending them, though. And Bellemy could relate to how Clarke must've felt, trapped in a foreign place and bleeding before strangers. He'd been tortured, yes, but not nearly eviscerated. Clarke was someone he didn't really picture as damaged, even when she left. He'd understood her then. Clarke hadn't run away, she'd simply decided on a different path after walking one too soaked in blood to view clearly anymore.

And when she had, He'd conjured an image of her joining some distant tribe and surviving among them. That one day she'd be back. But he hadn't expected it to be like this.

"Bell?" Octavia stepped in line with him but he quickly waved her off. "Not now, O."

But Octavia wasn't easy to deter. "What did Clarke tell you?"

Bellemy walked, heading nowhere in particular, just simply to _away_. "You'll know soon enough," he said.

His sister grabbed his arm, but he pulled out of it. "Listen to me," Bellemy whirled on her. "You are not to leave camp again, got that?"

Octavia's brows furrowed in confusion. "Bell, you can't just order-"

"I can," he deadpanned. "And I am. Just for once, don't fight me on this. Do not go beyond the fence. Promise me."

She must've seen something desperate in his eyes, one that read beyond simple brotherly protection. She studied him carefully, gauging his reaction before speaking. "What happened to her out there, Bell?"

Bellemy looked away from her, glancing once back at the tent he'd come from. "All I know is she's right. We haven't seen everything," He breathed. "We're just getting started."

* * *

Clarke hissed out a breath as her mother dabbed alcohol on her cut.

It was the only wound Clarke informed her she had, planning to soak her other wounds in the privacy of her tent. Perhaps she shouldn't have revealed the extent of damage to Bellemy, but it was the only way he'd understand. For her message to really reach him. And that was that the Ice Nation was a group of cruel grounders, merciless in their pursuit of power.

A shiver trickled its way down her spine and she forced out a calming breath, trying to remind herself that she was, for the first time in months, safe. It didn't help to keep the memories away, though, or the irrational fear she'd wake only to be back in that cold room, massaging her feet to keep away the frostbite.

"Clarke?" The word penetrated through to her and snapped her out of her reverie. She glanced at her mom, only to realize she'd been calling her name. "Yeah?"

"Honey, are you...?" A hundred questions clung to that one and there was a part of Clarke that wanted to cave in and tell her mother everything. It was that last remnant of her that still bore the piece of a little girl, a young princess drawing on cell walls. But Clarke had buried that piece, and in its place stood something much stronger and much less innocent.

"I'm okay, Mom," she lied coolly, arranging her face so it wouldn't belie her words. "I am."

Abby stared at her dubiously."Are you ready to tell me where you've been?"

Clarke nodded. In a way, sharing it first with Bellemy aided her in getting through it a second time. It made it easier to skip bloody details and leave a vague impression of it instead. To her mother, it didn't sound like a gory tale of a hostage left to die, but the managed escape of her barely-scathed daughter.

Exactly how she wanted it.

"I think we should call a meeting. I'll send for you when everyone's collected, okay?" Her mom said and Clarke nodded once more. When she left, Clarke hopped up and scrounged around the Med bay, pulling out bandages and disinfectant. She stashed it in her jacket before ducking out, trying to slip by unnoticed into her tent. Once there, she dropped her supplies and began stripping down to her bra, easing her shirt over her head. Every movement pulled on her lacerated skin, causing pain to scorch up like fire. She bit down on her lip, ignoring the bitter taste of blood that filled her mouth.

She snatched up a cloth and doused it in alcohol, taking a shaky breath before twisting back a hand and pressing it to the cut easiest to access. Her knees shook as it burned against her flesh, as hot and searing as being branded. A groan escaped her and tears threatened to spill but she blinked them back. Her hands trembled as she moved on to the next one.

Halfway through, her legs buckled, and Clarke tore off a piece of another cloth to shove it in her mouth.

She wouldn't let anyone hear her scream.

"Clarke?"

Before she could get the gag out fast enough to tell him to wait, Bellemy dipped his head into the tent, his gaze locking on her.

She knew what he was seeing. Not a girl barely clothed, but a girl covered in more cuts than clothing.

"What is it?" She asked, dismissing the intrusion. At least it had been him and not her mother. She could be grateful for that, at least.

Bellamy didn't speak. Clarke saw his hands clench and unclench as he looked away, at every other point but at her."The meeting," he said, voice steely. "Abby sent for me to tell you to come to the Council Room in fifteen minutes."

Clarke nodded. "Fine," she said, attempting to not sound so strained. "'Ill be right there."

She took back the other cloth and soaked it again. When Clarke didn't here Bellemy leave, she cast him a glance. "You don't have to stick around for this," she said through gritted teeth.

She tried to twist around for one of the higher lacerations, but the action just caused it to open further, sending an unbearable stab of pain down her back. Against her will, she gasped, dropping the cloth to keep herself upright.

But a pair of large hands held her steady, placed gently over her arms."Clarke?" Bellemy asked, much closer now than she remembered him being. She looked at him, ignoring the concern and blatant anger she saw there. "I'm fine," she said, breath ragged.

"Right," he chastised. "Lie down."

"What?"

He picked up the cloth. "You're just making it worse. Now lie down before you fall down."

"Bellemy-"

"Clarke." His tone hardened, becoming unyeilding and she complied, albeit hesitantly. She rested her head against the pillow, trying to breathe past the pain. "You don't have to help," Clarke told him, unable to see his face.

He acted as if he hadn't heard her. "This is going to hurt."

"Wait," Clarke pointed to the other torn but of cloth and he handed it to her. She shoved it in her mouth, and gave him a thumbs up.

He pressed the drenched cloth over her cuts, and it took all her willpower not to scream. What came out was a muffled cry as black dots erupted over her vision. She clenched her hand so tightly, they bit half-moons into her palms.

When Bellamy brought down the cloth again, her nails broke the skin. Clarke watched, almost transfixed, as a bead of red snaked its way down her palm, and dropped from the heel of it. Then it was covered up by a larger hand, and Clarke grasped it gratefully, holding it until her knuckles turned white. She focused her attention on the feeling of Bellemy's hold, even as the pain exploded and her back was consumed in fire.

She didn't let go.


	3. Sticks and Stones

**So I have the entire idea for this fanfiction mapped out. Seriously, I'm not even sure how that happened, but it did. And I'm happy about that. So yes, this will be a fanfiction that may cause distress. But one that will hopefully be worth that.**

Walking was excruciating, but Clarke forced her legs to forward, shuffling rocks as her and Bellemy made their way to the dilapidated ship.

"You look pale," Bellemy stated from beside her.

"Just remember what I told you," she said, giving him a pointed look.

Bellemy stared at her for a moment before nodding.

Clarke had made him swear not to breathe a word of her wounds to anybody else. For one, her mother would be infuriated. For another, Clarke didn't want it to provoke thoughts of war. If it came to that, they wouldn't win, and Clarke was finished leading people to their deaths.

When they entered the Council Room, Clarke noted a scatter of members that were gathered around the oval table. Kane. Abby. A few guards. Clarke was somewhat surprised to see Lincoln there, but then it dawned on her that if anyone knew the Ice Nation better than her, it was a man that shared the ground with them since birth.

Clarke eased into one of the chairs, ensuring not to rest her wounds against the back of it. She held her hands closed to keep the crests her nails had made hidden from everyone.

"Welcome back, Clarke," Kane said formally, smiling in greeting.

Clarke returned it as best she could, ignoring Bellemy's glance cast her way. "Thank you, Kane. Its good to see you again. And you, Lincoln." She wouldn't leave him out. Other than Bellemy, Lincoln was one of the strongest men she'd known, who'd endured the cruelty of the Mountain Men and had survived the impossible. He had a sense of loyalty that was unbreakable, and a conscience he'd used to draw a clear border between what he believed right and wrong. It was something Clarke greatly respected him for.

Abby was the first to speak. "It has come to our attention that a possible threat may exist, by a tribe of grounders known as the Ice Nation. Clarke has spent...much time there and its her impression that whatever action they take, if any, will be a hostile one." Abby nodded to her daughter and Clarke almost stood up, but Bellemy's imperceptible shake kept her seated."I stayed in the Ice Nation for roughly three months. And within that time, I got to see the danger they pose to not just us, but other grounder tribes as well."

Clarke blinked away an image that bobbed up in her mind. Of a stone room with a table nearby, decorated in a gleaming assortment of knives.

She ensured her voice didn't break as she said, "these people are vicious. They will not be interested in a treaty. What they want is blood, and control. And if you even consider a war, I'm here to warn you that we will lose."

"What's their advantage?" Inquired Kane, crossing his arms over his chest and studying her.

Clarke met his gaze. "Brutality," she answered. "Numbers. It's one of the largest settlements I've seen. They have a stocked weapons room, but that's not all."

"We've fought grounders before," Bellemy intercepted, but his voice lacked the conviction it held before she'd shown him the wounds.

Clarke turned her eyes on him. "We've fought grounders with bows and arrows. But we've never fought ones with guns."

The room went silent for a moment. Then it exploded, in a disjointed monotony of questions, mainly coming from Bellemy, Kane, and the guards. Clarke held up her hands to quiet them. "Yes," she repeated. "Guns. And more than what we have. "

"Why haven't they attacked us yet?" One of the guards asked.

"If we're so insignificant and easy to squash, why would they worry about attacking us anyway?" The other raised.

Clarke slammed her fist down on the table, the action sparking flames up her back. "Listen to me," She ordered. "The reason they haven't attacked us yet is largely due to distance. Word takes time to reach them and they're more isolated than other tribes. And they're not worried," she added with a dismayed shake of her head. "They're strategic. And the one advantage they'll see we have, is the one they'll want for themselves."

It took a moment for the others to catch the implication.

"The technology," Lincoln piped in for the first time.

Clarke nodded. "We have resources that these people have never even heard of. Methods of communication. Advanced medical equipment. Foreign appliances. Knowledge that would make them even more powerful than they already are. "

"As children, we were told horrific tales of the Ice Nation," Lincoln murmured, giving everyone a stony expression. "And from what I've seen, the stories are true. I've only crossed paths with them once, but it's evident their greed will one day be their downfall."

"Or ours," Clarke added. This time she stood up, sending Bellemy a stern look.

In the center of the table was a small bag and Clarke dumped the insides out, stones and whittled sticks falling from it. She formed the stones in a rectangular shape and began placing the sticks inside it, arranging it the way she remembered. Clarke could feel eyes on her as she sorted everything out, dredging up the memories of domed shaped houses, their doors like gaping mouths leading into the ground.

When it was complete, the others gathered around her. "There's another advantage they have," she said.

"Great," Bellemy quipped. "Rocket launchers?"

Clarke ignored the jab, motioning her hand over the compound."Most of their quarters are located underground, other than some housing. The settlement maps out in a network of tunnels, branching off in dozens of directions. I'm not even sure how far some go."

Bellemy ran an agitated hand through his hair, while Kane stared at her map grimly. Lincoln's expression remained impassive and Abby kept her lips pursed. The guards continued to stand stoically beside them all.

"What about the Queen's chambers?" Bellemy asked.

Kane raised a hand. "I'm sorry, 'Queen'?"

"They refer to their Leader as the Ice Queen," Clarke clarified.

"Did you ever meet this woman?"

Clarke's hands suddenly felt cold. Behind her lids, she glimpsed a person clad in dark armor, her appearance like a shadow pulled from the walls. Once, she'd caught the sight of a pair of eyes, the irises so black that the flames seemed to dance in empty pits.

"I never spoke with her," Clarke said. "She didn't order a sit in, just had me locked in a holding chamber." Clarke looked back at Bellemy, his speculative gaze searching hers. "I waited until they dismissed me as a threat and allowed me to roam freely, with some limitations. When the night of the winter solace came, I attacked a guard and impersonated him."

Bellemy nodded approvingly. "Smart."

Clarke shrugged. "A friend gave me the idea."

His lips pulled up in the ghost of a smile but slipped away as Clarke continued. "I was able to find a few papers that laid the groundwork for an attack. I went there in search of some sign they would strike at the Boat People, but there wasn't one. Lincoln," Clarke looked at him, "I know that they've threatened your tribe, but I don't think they'll attack it. I think their attention has already shifted. To us."

"And what makes you so certain of that?" Abby offered, staring down at Clarke's poor blueprint.

Clarke hesitated, feeling her back scream in protest as she remained standing. "The papers were maps. Marked maps that led from the mountains to here. I doubt more than just scouts have been down this far in years, so it won't be some blitz attack. It will be planned, carefully, and they won't allow it to fail."

Kane leaned forward, bending over the layout. "If they are as virulent as you claim they are, how is it that you managed to escape?" he proffered.

From the corner of her eye, Bellemy saw him look at her. But she stared back at Kane, raising her chin just slightly. "The worst mistake we can make is underestimating these people. I'm just one person. Don't weigh your odds with mine."

Kane sighed but accepted her answer. He took a seat across from her, steepling his fingers on the table. "Then, what do you propose we do?"

Clarke took a deep breath, working her jaw before she spoke. "This camp isn't safe. We need to relocate everyone somewhere that offers protection. Somewhere difficult to enter and even harder to breach. You need to move everyone into Mount Weather."


	4. Preparations

"Clarke, do you have any idea the damage left in Mount Weather?" Kane asked, eyebrows raised incredulously. "We exposed of the bodies, but that hardly means it's a sanitary environment."

Clarke stared back at him, trying to shake off the dizziness that suddenly swept over her. "You don't have a choice," she said. "Camp Jaha is not secure enough. You have an electric fence. That's it." She looked at each one of them in turn. "But if you want someplace where you'll be able to know when they come without surprise, its Mount Weather."

"Its a tomb!" One of the guards protested.

Those black dots returned, dancing over Clarke's vision, but she forced her voice to stay hard as she met their gaze. "Its our only chance."

"Kane," Bellemy said, looking at the older man. "She's right. You all know she is. We start packing tomorrow."

Kane stood up. "You don't call the shots, Blake." He didn't say it angrily, but it came out demeaning nonetheless.

Clarke caught the clench of Bellemy's jaw. "Fine," he conceded. "Then you call it. Because like Clarke said, we have no other option."

Clarke blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision. If she passed out here, they'd find out. Her secrets would unravel like the bandaging on her back.

As if reading her mind, Bellemy spoke on her behalf. "Clarke's had a long journey. I think it's best if we end this now," he said and relief flooded her. "Kane, you're right. You're the one calling the shots, but whatever you do call, its on you."

Clarke felt his hand land on hers and he helped her up. Not roughly, or too much to raise alarm. But as any mother would, Abby stepped forward worry etched in the lines of her face. "Clarke-"

"Mom, I'm fine," she said, raising a hand. She couldn't see her mother's face clearly, partially covered in bits of black that looked like ashes.

"She's dehydrated," Bellemy lied. "I'll escort her to her tent." And without waiting for a response, Bellemy led her out of the council room, down the hallways, and from the ship. Already, Clarke's legs were starting to wobble and she gripped Bellemy's arm as he directed her away from throngs of people and into her makeshift home.

She collapsed on her cot, squeezing her eyes shut as more dots burst forth.

"You need to rest," Bellemy ordered, in a voice that told her there was no room for negotiating.

She nodded. And then regretted the action.

He snatched up the blanket and lifted it to Clarke's chin.

For just a second, his face seemed to lose age, and Clarke could almost see Bellemy as a young boy, tucking a little girl into a bed beneath the floor.

But then the image disappeared and he stood to leave. "Hey Bellemy," Clarke called after him, before he could duck from the tent.

He glanced back at her. "Yeah?"

"I just want to say thank you," she admitted. "Not only for today but...just for all it. Thanks for being there." She tried for a smile.

Bellemy returned it with a nod before he left.

"Even when I wasn't," she added in a whisper.

* * *

"Load the rifles and weapons in the cart. Station guards near it, but not too close. Otherwise it'll look like we have something there worth protecting." Bellemy stood in front of a line of guards, downed in black gear as he gave them their orders.

Both Kane and Abby had agreed on Clarke's plan, a decision of which didn't seem to earn them any appeasement. Instead, a dark shadow had been cast over the camp, as its people loaded supplies and prepared to return to the place many had nearly died in. It had taken all their efforts to convince the people it was the only way, providing them the only choice to either come and live, or stay and die.

It was the kind of ultimatum none attempted to question.

Two days ago, Kane had ordered a pair to inspect Mount Weather and report back their findings. Which, as of early this morning, had confirmed that the mountain was still vacant. Kane had then assigned Bellemy to help organize their leave. That included the food supply and weapon inventory, a job that was steadily beginning to weigh him down.

"I want the medical equipment separated into two quarters!" He barked out. "Do not put any full stock in one place!"

He shifted on his heels and marched into the ship, stopping when he reached the lab. Raven stood inside with Wic, both standing above an eclectic horde of gadgetry scattered at their feet. He look at them in disbelief. "What are you doing?" He demanded. "This was supposed to be loaded an hour ago."

"Hey, Bellemy," Raven said, discarding his chastise as she surveyed the tech.

"How much were we supposed to bring?" Wic leaned in to ask Raven, balancing his elbow with a hand.

Bellemy felt his anger pique and answered the question instead. "We need the essentials. Bring materials you can use to make explosives. Bombs. Anything like that."

"I can make a bomb out of a toaster and some paper," Raven said. "You're gonna need to be a bit more specific."

Bellemy swallowed back a retort. "Bring what only you guys can use," he clarified. "I don't want to see dynamite with an instruction manual in the cart."

Raven scoffed. "Why didn't you just say so? We can load all this up, then."

Bellemy looked at her skeptically. "You sure? If we're ambushed between here and Mount Weather, I don't want to be aiding the enemy."

It was true that Clarke had promised that would be unlikely and the safest time to travel would be the soonest. But Bellemy didn't want to take those chances.

Raven smirked at him. "Can you tell what any of this stuff is, Bellemy?"

His eyes fell back to the gadgets, the littering of devices, gleaming in the morning light. There was an array of metal cylinders, and other structures he couldn't fathom the uses of. He shook his head.

Raven smiled. "Then we have nothing to worry about."

* * *

As mid afternoon approached, Clarke began to get anxious. She ignored Bellemy's word of warning to stay put and had long since left the confines of her tent. Now she was trying to help finish the loading, and assist in the final arrangements.

Some supplies they would be leaving behind, in case things turned south. They would be kept hidden, locked in one of the ship's safes that could only be opened with a code. Or explosives, but Clarke wasn't counting on that.

When the last cart was nearly filled, Octavia appeared in front of her, helping her with the last load. "So back to Mount Weather, then," Octavia said, attempting to sound blas'e about the situation. Or cynical.

Clarke nodded. "Yup."

She hadn't really let the return settle in her mind. Wouldn't. If she let those haunting images creep in, of levers and computer screens, she'd freeze. And that was something she just couldn't afford to do.

"Clarke." Octavia's voice lost the lightness, and it turned cold. "Are you really okay?"

Clarke looked at her friend, catching the concern in her eyes. It was harder to lie to someone who understood more of what she'd endured, and who'd accepted the horrible things she'd done. But was she okay?

Okay had once meant content. A single word to let others know they were hurting, but that they'd make it through. But on the ground, okay had been redefined to mean something much more simple. To them, it simply meant alive.

"Yeah, Octavia," she said, hoping her voice sounded sure. "I'm okay."

The girl didn't look that convinced, but let it go, which Clarke appreciated. They locked the cart up in silence, before giving the signal that it was finished. The compound was now full of a small band of disjointed carts, pulled individually by horses. Other than two lookouts, everyone would be traveling on foot. When Lincoln came into view, Octavia squeezed Clarke's shoulder before drifting over to him.

Clarke ignored the stab of pain that caused, turning her attention on Abby, speaking with Kane, and then on Bellemy, standing resolute near more guards. Clarke overheard him telling them to fan out and form a perimeter around the cargo, just moments before Kane signaled everyone to move out. Somber gazes were cast over shoulders, murmured questions voiced under peoples' breaths. No one bothered to make some sort of departing speech, because it wouldn't have made a difference. The electricity to the fence was cut, leaving the echo of a dull hum in their wake.

When the Camp had receded from view, leaving nothing but wilderness before them, Bellemy stepped into stride beside her. "You honestly don't think they'll attack?" He asked, eyes scanning the blanket of trees to their left.

Clarke nodded. "If anything, they may have scouts down here, but not enough to follow through on a successful raid."

"How reassuring," Bellemy said sarcastically.

She gave him a smirk.

"How're you feeling, by the way?" He added, looking back at her.

Clarke shrugged. "The wounds aren't infected. They should be healed within a few months."

"I'm not just asking about the cuts, Clarke," he amended. "I meant with all of this, returning to Mount Weather."

"I wasn't the only one burdened by what was done there, Bellemy," she said, glancing back at him. His dark hair was slick with sweat from the day, from the sun that still hung high between the clouds. "I'm sorry I didn't ask how you'd feel about it."

"You already knew," he said, but there was no accusation in his voice. "If the Ice Nation is such a powerful threat, there really was no other choice. You didn't decide this out of impulse. It was out of necessity. One that may just have saved these people's' lives."

"I don't want that on me, Bellemy," Clarke bit out, slightly surprised. She glanced at the people passing her, walking ahead and behind before looking back at him. "I don't want to be responsible for lives anymore."

"Clarke," he grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. She did and stared up at him, waiting for whatever was coming next.

"Even if you hadn't been there, I would've pulled that lever," He confessed, the earnest showing in his dark eyes. "It wasn't just you."

But Clarke only pursed her lips, trying to keep the images away from her. "Even so, I'm done being responsible for lives. I'm not a leader here, Bellemy. For the first time since we came to the ground, I'm just Clarke. And the only life I'm now responsible for, is my own."

* * *

It took a full day for the herd of people to reach Mount Weather. It jutted from the earth in a cemented mound, the dam leaking nothing more than small rivulets of water down the surface. The sight sent a hundred images flashing through Clarke's mind, each like a shard of glass lacerating her to a pulp.

When the circular door was opened, the guards were the first to enter, waving for everyone to wait before they returned and gave the okay.

Clarke stepped closer, watching as others followed, disappearing into the darkness beyond. Dread curled in her gut as she reached the opening, gripping the frame of it with bone-white knuckles. She squeezed her eyes shut.

A hand rested on her shoulder. "One step at a time," Bellemy told her.

Clarke reached up and grabbed his hand, much like she'd done the other night.

"Together," she said.

He squeezed her hand and they both stepped inside.


	5. Nightmares

**Hey guys! So here is the next chapter. No chapter really has a specific length, so some will be longer than others and vice versa. BUT, to keep me motivated, please review! Your input is always welcomed so do not hesitate! So without further ado, here you go!**

The lights flickered on, bathing the stone entry in a ghostly light. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, hesitant and slow, as everyone took in the remnant of Mount Weather. Those that had never set foot here were the most collected, driven by curiosity instead of trauma. But everyone kept quiet, as if scared to disturb the silence.

Clarke felt her heart slam against her chest at the familiar place, the corridor she'd walked before. Now it was desolate, the only living people being the ones they brought inside.

Clarke hadn't known what to expect. Some level of morbidity that mirrored that day? A roomful of the dead they'd be forced to walk over?

But there wasn't.

The only trace that something horrible had happened here was in the stillness that surrounded her.

"How'd you dispose of the bodies?" Clarke asked Bellemy, her voice barely a whisper.

Bellemy looked at her. "They were burned."

Clarke assumed as much but felt her throat catch and turned away. She followed after the line of others, allowing the current to pull them into a room. No, not just any room.

 _The_ room.

The last time Clarke had stood here, The place had been littered with the fallen Mountain Men. The image surged in her mind until it glitched back and forth, and she was seeing both an empty Hall, and one strewn with bodies.

Clarke shut her eyes, trying to wash away the images. She wouldn't break. Not here. Not in this room. And it was just a room, she told herself. One that had once housed people, and now did so again.

Kane giving orders was what shattered the quiet, handing out directives regarding sanitary measures and precautions. Dusk had fallen, and people were beginning to lag, losing organization in search of some place to rest. It was then that Clarke released Bellemy's hand and made her way to Kane. "There are barracks on the fifth level," she said, knowing full well it wasn't the ideal place any would want to stay in. But it was clean.

Kane nodded and ordered them to the level, assigning a guard to guide them there. When that was done, Clarke had another matter to attend to, one she knew neither her mother nor Kane would be too keen on agreeing with. But she'd thought it over during the trek to the mountain, and it was necessary.

"I need to speak with you in private," she told him.

Kane leveled his eyes with hers. "What is it?"

"The room across the hall. I'll meet you there. Bring my mom." With that, she skirted her way between the stream of people and back out the corridor. Like she'd said, directly across opened another room, drastically smaller but enough to fit three people in.

Clarke waited there, the place dark other than the single bulb she'd turned on. A moment later, the door cracked open and in came Kane, with both Abby and Bellemy trailing him.

"What is it, Clarke?" Kane asked, shutting the door behind them.

Clarke ground her teeth, but met his gaze with indignation. "I'm not staying here," she said.

The reaction was one she'd anticipated, but before she could be bombarded with questions, she quickly added, "I'm returning to the Boat People to tell them what I found. Whether you accept it or not, you need an alliance. You can't take on the Ice Nation alone."

"I thought you were worried about being traced back to them," Bellemy reminded her. But she shook her head. "Enough time has passed for that not to be a concern. I know none of you like this, but it has to be done."

Bellemy's gaze turned cold. "You can't go back out there after...You just got back," he recovered at Clarke's warning glare.

She'd already prepared her argument and wouldn't back down from it. "I made an agreement with them, Bellemy. I'm going."

"Clarke," her mother started. "Its danger-"

"Dangerous?" Clarke looked at her incredulously. "You think I don't know that? You have no idea what it's like out there, Mom. But I do, and I have to go. They need to know nothing's coming, because otherwise they could be wasting resources they can't afford just to protect themselves. And I won't be their blind spot."

"I understand that. But you are not going alone," Abby stated, in a tone that very clearly defined no compromise.

Clarke was about to object, but before she could, Bellemy interrupted. "She won't," he said. "I'll go."

"Wait," Clarke turned on him. "Bellemy, you can't. You're the head of the guard-"

"And the only available person qualified to protect our most vital interests," he said matter of factly, sharing a glance with each of them.

It was something Kane couldn't deny, and that truth undoubtedly comforted Abby, leaving only Clarke to protest. She looked at Kane. "You need him here," she said slowly.

"No, I need him where it counts most. You said so yourself, Mount Weather is secure. The only other security we need to ensure is our alliance with the Boat People." Kane appraised Bellemy with a look if satisfaction on his face. "Then it's settled. Blake will go with you, Clarke. And just maybe, for once, we can stop a war before it starts."

* * *

 _The world was made of ice._

 _It stung her throat to breathe, bit at her ankles as she trudged through it. Then the soft blanket of snow disappeared, replaced by stone just as cold._

 _Clarke looked up, meeting a man she couldn't see, his face hidden behind dark cloth. He held a blade in his hand, long and thin, the wicked edge grinning back at her. He took a step closer and Clarke tried to move away, but her hands were tied above her head with a chain, hung to a hook imbedded in the ceiling._

 _Panic shuddered through her and her breathing turned shallow. Even in the chill, sweat collected on the nape of her neck. Clarke shut her eyes as he came forward, the blade kissing her flesh._

 _It must've been dipped in some kind of acid, because it burned, until it felt as if her skin were being liquefied. She opened her eyes to tell him to stop, but it was no longer a stranger before her. The dark cloth had been removed, leaving a familiar face in the frame._

 _"Dante," she whispered._

 _"Hello, Clarke," he said, tone devoid of anger or sympathy. He stared at her behind empty, sightless eyes._

 _Her heart sped up, jumping in her throat and Clarke found it difficult to speak around it. "Why...what are you doing here?" She asked, her voice breaking on the words._

 _He didn't seem to have heard her. "You know it's your fault," he said, empathetic. "All those lives that could've been saved. But you took the easy route. If only you'd tried."_

 _Despite her efforts, Clarke felt tears well in her eyes and her vision blurred with unshed tears. "I did try, I tried to convince Cage but he wouldn't listen."_

 _"That's what you tell yourself," he said, lifting the blade. The edge skimmed her cheek, just light enough to draw beads of blood. "But you understand the truth. Who you were...what you've become...you're no better than me, Clarke, who's actions are no more justified than my son's."_

 _Clarke clenched her teeth so hard, her jaw ached. "He wouldn't have stopped. You knew he wouldn't have agreed to any sort of treaty or take volunteers. I tried to be the good guy, Dante. I tried!"_

 _"You did what you had to in order to survive," he breathed, his expression fathomless. "But at what price? Are you really going to build a society out of the bones of those you slaughtered?"_

 _Guilt bloomed across her chest as the memories flooded back in a relentless stream that threatened to drown her. "I didn't have a choice!" She finally screamed, letting her outburst reverberate around the room. "I didn't-I didn't want that! But I had to save them. I didn't want it, I didn't want any of it!"_

 _"Neither did those, people." Dante smiled, but it looked ugly in the dim light. "Neither did I. Or have you forgotten that you killed me as well, Clarke?"_

 _Her entire body was shaking, and she gazed at him, hoping he could see her plea. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "But I told you how it would end. You didn't listen!"_

 _"And now you get to be the one to live with it," he countered. "Everyday, Clarke Griffin, for the rest of your life. But for me, that doesn't seem good enough. No, perhaps the scars you harbor on the inside, should have matching ones on the out." He raised the blade once more, And Clarke could do nothing as he brought it down again and again and again, until the scorch of acid burned away the cold and replaced a world made of ice with one of fire._

* * *

They left Mount Weather at dawn, the sky hues of orange, bleeding down trails of purple like watercolor on a canvas.

Kane had given them two horses which would cut down the travel time, something Clarke didn't need to ask to know Bellemy was grateful for. And she was, too. After a night of very little sleep, her ability to function was not at its optimum. Bellemy must've noticed, but he hadn't pointed out the bags beneath her eyes, or the glaze over them.

For a while they just rode in a comfortable silence, one they'd shared numerous times before. It was reassuring to Clarke to at least know that some things didn't change.

But when mid afternoon arrived and they stopped by the river for the horses, Clarke was the one to break it. "So how's it like being the head of the guard?" She asked, casting him a sideways glance. "You never did tell me when that happened."

He crouched down and cupped some river water, both drinking it and using the rest to wash his face. He stood back up and shook waterdrops from his hand. "It was a few months after you left. Kane needed more men and none of the One Hundred were willing to follow him. I wasn't so much as chosen as I was their only alternative."

"But you're important to them," she noted. "Not just to us anymore, but to Camp Jaha.

The people feel safer with you."

"If anything, I just offer them the illusion, Clarke. Not the real thing."

But she shook her head. "That's no true. Bellemy, all of our people would be dead if you weren't here. When you promise something, you deliver, and that's why you have what Kane doesn't. You have their trust."

"Which just makes me likely to lose it," he answered, voice turning hard. He gave her a tired look. "I can't promise them anything, Clarke. Not even tomorrow. And even if I could, I wouldn't. Because like you said, you're not a leader anymore, and neither am I. Them looking to me is a distraction, and its one that could get them killed."

With that, Bellemy returned to his horse and saddled up and Clarke followed suit.

"I'm sorry," she said, after they'd ridden away from the river. "I know leaving must've made that harder on you."

"Yeah," Bellemy deadpanned. "But you knew it would. I'm not blaming you for leaving, Clarke. Its not like you bailed halfway through. You saw it to the end."

Clarke took a deep breath, tightening her hold on the stirrups.

"Besides," he looked across at her. "Without the information you gave, we'd still be at Camp Jaha, completely vulnerable to an attack. We may not be leaders anymore, Clarke, but we still protect our people."

At his words, her mind went to Dante in her dream, clutching the weapon that had maimed her back.

"But at what cost?" She asked herself.

* * *

It was a four day trek to the Boat People's village, one that passed slowly during the day and even slower at night. Clarke found it difficult to sleep, waking from figures clothed in shadow and weapons dripping crimson.

On the last night before arrival, Clarke finally gave up on rest and crawled from her tent, only to find Bellemy still awake, poking a small fire. Flames danced up from its center, winding through the patches of grass and bundles of wood.

She took a seat across from him, watching the light from the fire illuminate his face.

"You get them, too," he said.

It wasn't a question and required no answer. Instead both of them grew quiet, content sitting by the fire, and Clarke found herself comforted by the small truth that at least in this kind of war, she wasn't facing it alone.

It wasn't until the following evening they reached the Boat People, a scatter of thatch work huts littering the area beside the moor. A row of barges, archaic and creaking, the paint long-since worn away, stood idle in the shallow water, rocking on the gentle waves.

Emotion swelled inside Clarke's chest as she stared down from the hill they were on, to the people farming and working below, smoke billowing up in whisps.

The Boat tribe hadn't been Clarke's home, but it had been a home. One with kind faces and and welcoming smiles. She hadn't been turned away like she'd anticipated, six months ago. She'd been accepted, and given a roof that had provided shelter and safety.

"Looks homey," Bellemy mumbled, but Clarke had already dismounted, leading her horse down the rocky decline.

She had barely reached the base when she heard someone shout her name. Clarke squinted in the dying light, but instantly recognized the small person running to her, hair billowing behind her like a black flag.

She barely had enough time to brace herself before the child rammed into her, enveloping her waist in a hug. Pain split up her back, but this time Clarke welcomed it, bending down to hug the little girl correctly.

 _Ni'tyo, Phlox_ ," she said, reciting the small pieces of their language she'd learned here. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't bad, either.

She looked at Bellemy who was watching her somewhat curiously, scrutinizing the language she'd used. "This is Phlox," Clarke introduced. "Daughter to Konuu's second- in-command."

Bellemy crossed his arms. "I never took you for the motherly type Clarke," he said, voice teasing.

Clarke rolled her eyes.

Before she could introduce him to Phlox, the girl let out a flurry of native tongue, but Clarke picked out the essential fragments, most of which Clarke had already assumed. Many of the villagers had thought Clarke to be dead, after her failure to return, but she was quick to reassure Phlox as bet she could in the foreign dialect.

When she'd calmed down some, she seemed to finally notice Bellemy, standing stoically beside them.

Instantly, she withdrew behind Clarke, suing her body as a barrier.

"It's okay," Clarke told her. She pointed at Bellemy. " _T'yshen_ ," she said. "Friend."

To Clarke's surprise, Bellemy crouched down slowly and gave the girl a small wave. That seemed to comfort her and she gazed back at him with her big, dark eyes. She appraised him up and down before evidently coming to some conclusion and gave him a dazzling smile.

Clarke couldn't help but chuckle at the quick receival.

By now, others had taken notice, and more people approached them, welcoming Clarke but eyeing Bellemy warily. She sought out Phlox's father, a tall muscular man with matching long hair that went by the name Noshua. But he located her first, barking at the others to take a step back.

Clarke didn't bother wasting any time. "I need to speak with Konuu," she said, knowing he'd recognize the name. He cast a suspicious glance to Bellemy but Clarke shook her head. "He comes with me.

Noshua looked as if he wanted to argue, but nodded stiffly. He turned on his heel and Clarke motioned for Bellemy to follow, all of the people parting away from them except for Phlox who clung to Clarke's hand.

It was easy to spot the Boat Leader's hut; it was the largest one was placed in the center of the others, closed off by a wooden plaque. Noshua pulled it open and jerked his head, gesturing them inside.

Clarke was the first one to enter, recalling the heavy scent of smoke, clinging to the air and weighing it down.

The interior of the structure looked much more stable than the outside, lined with multiple sheets of wood and the occasional plate of metal. A bar was placed off to the left, lined with a few bowls of fruit, but Clarke's attention had turned to the familiar chair behind it that stood against the farthest wall, entertwined meticulously in wood.

Konuu was an older man, reaching between his fifties to sixties, Clarke estimated, his braided black hair streaked grey. A pelt of animal skin was draped over him and he brandished a scythe tall enough to meet Clarke's shoulders. The sight of it made her involuntarily tense.

She bent her head in greeting and Bellemy copied her actions awkwardly.

"Clarke Griffin," he breathed, his tone ragged and deep. His eyes studied her, cold and black as obsidean. "I see you're quite alive after all."

Bellemy ducked his head towards Clarke. "He speaks English?"

"He's the only one." She turned her attention back to the leader. "As alive as to be expected," she told him.

He studied her with very careful precision, gauging her expression, her stance, the shadows beneath her eyes. When he was satisfied, he replied, "Quite. To be honest, I originally doubted your durability. It seems you're much stronger than you appear to be."

Clarke felt a need to deny that but squandered it. "The alliance," she mentioned. "I came to tell you that no attack is coming. Not against your people."

Konuu leaned forward. "Do you have proof of this?"

Clarke blanched. "Proof?" She stuttered. "You never said anything about proof-"

"Then am I supposed to simply take your word for it?" He asked, raising his thick brows. "Pin the lives of my people on something so frail? I'll admit, if you did manage to reach the Ice Nation and escape, it's admirable. But to escape unscathed? Not even I believe that."

Clarke clenched her jaw, understanding the innuendo in his words. She didn't blame him for it, but it didn't lift her dread either.

First, she told Phlox to leave, and only when the girl was gone did she repeat her actions she'd done so with Bellemy. With him, it had at least felt safe. Here, exposing her wounds felt personal.

"Clarke-"

She ignored Bellemy, raising the shirt just high enough for Konuu to catch sight of her marred flesh beneath, cracked and still oozing drops of red. Then Clarke yanked it down and turned back to him.

His expression didn't change but she thought she caught a subtle hint of sympathy shining in his black eyes.

"Very well, Clarke Griffin. An agreement is an agreement. You have your alliance," he breathed and she felt some of the tension leave her body.

Konuu stretched out his hand and she met it, their fingers clasping tightly together. "May it prosper between the Boat and Sky people," he said.

* * *

When they left Konuu's tent, Phlox was waiting for them, and instantly resumed her place beside Clarke.

The girl had grown fond of her from the day she first arrived, after showing her how to skip a rock across the moor. Since then, Phlox had become a consistency in Clarke's life here, and her presence was refreshing. There was something soothing about being with someone who didn't share the same black outlook as they did.

"That reminds me," said Clarke, returning to her horse they'd brought down for them. She grabbed her duffel and, with Bellemy and Phlox watching in confusion, retrieved something inside. It was a husk doll Clarke had made, recalling a lesson given on Native Americans once on the Ark. She held it out to Phlox who gazed at it with that childish wonder, before taking it gently into her hands.

She beamed up at Clarke and the sight made her feel a little less cold. Then the girl sped off, raising it up to show the other children.

Bellemy pulled off his duffel, pausing just long enough to watch Phlox disappear. He glanced at Clarke. "It seems you're a natural."

She scoffed. "Because one kid likes me? I don't think so."

"You're good with them, Clarke." He sounded convinced.

But she just gave him a small smile before they began walking to the hut that Clarke had been given.

She didn't want to picture herself as the motherly type. She couldn't, simply too consumed by the thought that while she gave one child dolls, she'd taken the lives a few dozen more just like her.

* * *

Instead of both her and Bellemy staying in the same thatchwork hut, he was given the one beside it.

Their evening meal had already passed, so Clarke was given a variety of fruits and nuts combined with her and Bellemy's rations of dried venison. It was only when they were finished that they retired for the night.

When Bellemy passed her on his way to the hut, he gave her the trace of a smile. "You did it, Clarke," he told her.

The credit made her feel uncertain and she sighed. "We'll see."

He nodded at that. "Don't we always. Night, Clarke."

"Night, Bellemy."

When she entered the small room, the weight of Clarke's journey finally settled on her and she dropped onto the straw bedding. It took mere moments for her to fall into a fitful sleep, of empty rooms and gleaming knives.

But a couple hours later, Clarke was jolted awake by the sounds of screams, replacing her nightmare for one that was very very real.


	6. Fire and Smoke

**Next chapter! Please and review! (Seriously, I did not expect this kind of response so quickly. I'm touched, Guys. Your kind words make my day!)**

Clarke bolted upright, disoriented in the darkness. Screams rang from the distance and she clambered off the bed, snatching up a small blade she kept inside her boot. She threw the door open and stepped out, trying to see through the night.

A small patch of fire licked up from a nearby hearth but it wasn't enough, and Clarke strained her eyes, the sound of her heartbeat mixing with the screams.

That's when the gunfire started.

On instinct, Clarke dropped to her knees as the popping of bullets surrounded her, flashes of light coming from the shadows.

 _Bellemy,_ She thought.

Clarke crawled to the end of her hut, elbows sinking in mud and she tried to weigh her best chances to run. The gunfire continued, chiming like bells among the monotony of screams. Clarke looked back, hoping to find Phlox, but instead watched helplessly as the first of the Boat people fell, his head smacking dully against the ground.

Something stabbed painfully in her chest but Clarke turned away and stood, running into open fire.

Time seemed to slow, and she became hyperaware of every breath she took, every shot that sounded from her left. Clarke dove to the other hut, a bullet bouncing off the edge and splintering the wood. Someone grabbed her from behind and she clutched her knife, but paused when she whipped around to meet Bellemy's eyes.

He yanked her forward, and they flattened their backs against the hut's wall, breathing ragged and shallow. "I thought you said they weren't planning an attack!" He asked, raising his voice to be heard over the chaos.

Clarke couldn't think. Everything was a blur as she watched more people fall, their blood soaking into the soil. "They...They weren't," she barely managed. "They weren't supposed to! I looked! There wasn't-"

More gunfire erupted, much closer now and Bellemy pulled Clarke down, a shot breaking the wood where her head had just been.

"What direction are they coming from?" he asked, trying to catch a glimpse from around the hut. He jerked back when more shots were issued.

Clarke was struggling to make sense of his words, too consumed by the death she was once again involved in to focus clearly. She'd told them nothing was coming; had practically ripped their defenses away herself.

"It's a blitz attack," she said, and her own voice sounded very far away. "They're surrounding us."

Someone hit the ground close to them and Clarke scrambled over to help him, but Bellemy clamped a hand around her. "He's dead, Clarke!"

 _Maybe not_ , she thought, but then she saw the stain of dark liquid under him, steadily creeping towards her and fell back.

More people lay around them, cut down like weeds and she tried to conjure a way to stop this. Explosives, weapons, but there were none. The Boat People's greatest advantage was their dozens of Scouts, an advantage Clarke had given reason were no longer as necessary.

"I did this," she breathed, letting the truth settle in. Shed done this as surely as she'd slipped away before that missile had hit Rubicon.

"Clarke!" Bellemy yelled at her, snapping her back to attention. "We need cover! This isn't going to hold."

Clarke knew they needed someplace secure and she wracked her brain, trying to drown out the gunfire that imprinted a buzz in her ears. "The cellar dugout!" She shouted back, flinching away from the next rain of bullets. "It's on the opposite side of the camp!"

"Of course it is!" Bellemy lifted his hand and only then did Clarke realize he held his gun. It seemed painfully small and insufficient to the waves of gunshots around them, knocking men and women off their feet in rows.

"We need to help them!" Clarke screamed, as more people went down. She was about to run out, to do something-anything, but Bellemy forced her back. "You can't, Clarke!" He shouted, his expression turning somber. "Getting yourself killed won't help anyone!"

Clarke wanted to protest, but he was being reasonable and she wasn't. Reason had disappeared as soon as that first screams had pierced the air.

"You said the cellar was over there, right?" He pointed to a distance in front of them.

Clarke nodded.

"Okay, we're going to use the huts as shields. Tell everyone to get to that cellar! We run when I call it." Bellemy crouched before the edge of the hut, raising the barrel of his gun in front of him.

He held up a hand. "Now!"

Clarke thrust herself forward, forcing her legs to move as fast as she could. Bullets fired around them, singing through the air and bringing down more people. Her ears roared just as they hit the ground behind the hut. They dropped to their knees, hugging their backs to the wall.

"Again, when I say," Bellemy ordered, glancing at her once.

Clarke was about to agree, but then something in the distance made her pause and she squinted to see it more clearly.

"Wait," she snagged his arm. He looked back at her but Clarke was staring at what had caught her attention; a small flicker of fire had begun snaking up a faraway hut.

More dread expanded over her and Clarke felt suddenly dizzy as more flames leapt up. Hut after hut.

"They're burning it," she whispered.

"You can't do anything, Clarke," Bellemy repeated. "Come on!"

Again, they darted across the small expanse between the two huts, gunfire blinking like light bugs in the foliage. Before they'd even hit the dirt, Clarke was rushing up to the nearest people, telling them to get to the cellar.

 _"Pot'yo!"_ She screamed, recalling the word for it. "Go!"

Some seemed to understand what she meant. Others just blinked before a sailing bullet found them. Clarke couldn't help those, and Bellemy shouted at her to run again and she did, darting to the next thatch work cover. Bellemy flipped the gun around and fired a few shots over the edge of the hut, receiving more in return. Clarke heard him let out a curse, as she scrambled up to tell more people.

A few who did understand started running there immediately, letting instinct reign, and they started cutting through the village and into open fire.

"No!" Clarke screamed.

But it was too late. They were mowed down instantly, the figures dropping like flies.

And she left them behind, too.

Now the fire had grown thicker, wafting up smoke, the flames licking up and consuming huts whole. Some fled from the doors, while other huts were already empty and were enveloped in fire without protest.

"We're close," Clarke informed Bellemy when they stopped next, both of their breathing pained and ragged. He let go a few more rounds before an empty click sounded. "I'm out."

Clarke didn't know if the gun had offered much protection anyway, but she felt hopelessly more exposed without it. The smoke was collecting, though, blanketing them in a choking fog that might offer small cover.

Bellemy gestured her forward. "Lets go!"

They were a hut away from the cellar, And Clarke tried to scream for everyone to get to it, but the smoke burned its way down her throat and made it difficult to speak. She coughed, her vision turning watery as the bitter air stung her eyes.

Then Bellemy was running out and Clarke followed, stumbling over the potholed ground. He made it there first and and they both flung themselves before the hut, covering their heads as another shower of bullets came.

 _"Nak'we_!" She heard someone shout and turned over, catching the frantic eyes of a woman.

Clarke knew her, of course. It was an older tribe member called Tolia, who'd been the first person she'd met here. She was a kindly woman who'd offered her comfort in the form of hot broth and a sweet smile.

Before Clarke knew what she was doing, she ran back out, away from her meager cover and into the gunfire, hoping to pull the woman out of the way. She was so close, their fingertips skimming one another's.

Then Clarke was jerked back by a pair of strong arms, just in time to watch Tolia fall. Clarke stared at her for a moment, brown eyes seeing right through her, before Belly hauled her back.

"Go, Clarke!" He shoved her forward and she could do nothing but comply, choking on smoke as she went.

"Where is it?" Bellemy asked, his voice cutting through like a knife.

Clarke choked again, trying to see through her tearing vision. In the ground behind the hut, buried partially under dirt and brush, was a vat of metal. She pointed to it. "There."

Bellemy ran over and fell to his knees, discarding the gun. Clarke stooped beside him and dropped her blade. She dug her nails into the space between it and the ground. She and Bellemy strained to open it, stopping once as more bullets sought them out. Clark knew when the skin of her fingertips broke but felt nothing as she pulled, the dirt's hold finally giving way.

The vat swung up, revealing a pit of darkness beneath.

Around her, some people had reached them. It was a marginal number, but Clarke directed them inside, flinching at every close bullet that grazed her.

Subconciously, she found herself counting them, a number so low, she couldn't comprehend it.

"That's only twenty five!" She shouted at Bellemy. This camp housed hundreds of people.

But he just dropped the last person inside and met her panicked gaze. "That's all there is, Clarke!"

But that couldn't be right. No. _No_. "We have to-"

"We can't!" he shouted back, the growing fire bathing him in an eerie light. "It's all we can do."

"No, but-"

"Get inside, Clarke!" He ordered, his voice steely.

She looked at him, feeling the hopelessness register on her face before she gazed back at the village, the homes consumed by flames with their inhabitants littering the ground beside them. "What about Phlox?" she asked, eyes searching for the little girl with hair black as night. "Did she come in?"

Bellemy returned her look, desperation clouding his dark eyes. "I don't know," he admitted. "But we can't wait anymore. Get down there, Clarke!"

But Clarke hesitated. How could she just abandon these people? She'd already abandoned so many others; the grounders, her friends inside Mount Weather, her people at Camp Jaha. But a moment later, Bellemy made the choice for her, clambering down into the darkness and pulling her with him. Then he shut the vat, sealing them in shadows.

Clarke's ears still rang with gunfire and she tried to get her bearings in the blackness too dark for her eyes to grow accustomed to. Someone struck some kind of match against the wall, providing a bit of light in the cramped space.

Clarke glanced around. They were surrounded by woven, burlap bags, many containing grain and seeds, a food stock to be used during the harvest season, and then the later winter months. The only sound in the room came from the haggard breaths of twenty seven individuals, followed by the tearful sobs of women and children.

It took all of Clarke's ability to remain standing. Everything inside her was slowly breaking apart, but she forced the pieces back into place for just a little bit longer.

It was hard to do, though, when she saw that Phlox nor her father was here.

"They could've gotten away," Bellemy told her, as if reading her mind. Clarke grabbed at that small hope, letting it spark like the flames overhead. She turned to him, but a dark patch over his shoulder caught her attention, and she raised her hand to it. Her fingers came away wet.

"You're shot," she said, feeling guilt twist inside her. It could've happened at any time, but Clarke suspected it was when he pulled her out of the line of gunfire, away from Tolia.

Bellemy shrugged. "I think it went through."

Clarke used the small blade she'd retrieved to cut his shirt away, exposing beneath the patch of red spurting from the damaged tissue. "Flesh wound," Clarke said. He still needed a tourniquet and she pulled off her jacket, using her knife to cut a strip of fabric. She tied it securely above his shoulder, not meeting his gaze as she worked. This was something she could do. This was something she could fix.

But Clarke did so quickly, too-soon forced to sit and endure the stares of the remaining Boat People. They said nothing, just watched them both in silence.

Clarke wondered if they blamed her. How could they not? She did, and it took her lat reservation of energy to hold herself together. Bellemy seemed to understand and he pulled her to him, gently this time and she allowed herself to rest her head on his uninjured shoulder.

Then their only source of light went out, cutting off the stares.

* * *

Clarke didn't know when morning came.

An eternity seemed to elapse in that cold little room, until a small slit of sun made its way through a gunshot in the vat. She wasn't sure if she'd fallen asleep or simply stayed as she was, eyes glazed and looking at nothing. Clarke could tell Bellemy hadn't slept either, no one had, but he needed that wound cleaned, so Clarke forced herself to stand and climb up to the metal screen.

She placed both her hand on its underside and shoved upward, the vat springing open and flooding the room with blinding light. Clarke blinked, her eyes slitting in the brightness as she pulled herself out and onto the dirt.

It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, and when they did, her legs wobbled. Behind her, others followed, each one taking in the horror they stood before.

The huts that had surrounded the area only yesterday were now painted black, their charred remains crumpled around like paper. Smoke still billowed up from them, trails of it weaving through the air and disappearing into the morning sky. But the worst of it, were the countless bodies she saw, some burnt beyond recognition.

A different kind of scream sounded, one not of terror, but unbearable grief that came from the surviving Boat People, as many ran off to find their loved ones.

Clarke wanted to search for Phlox, praying that her and Noshua had somehow gotten away. But soon, that desire vanished and Clark's knees finally buckled and she just stared at the broken people before her. At the hundreds of lives taken, the dozens of homes destroyed, at one corn husk doll, collecting ashes on the ground.


	7. Broken

**I don't really want to say much here for spoilers...except this is the longest chapter so far (woo). As always, please read and (if you could) review! Thanks so much. :)**

Clarke became aware of shaking.

Her entire body moved with silent tremors and she dug her nails into the ground, ignoring the bite of pain that resonated up her arms. When she lifted them, burnt remains came away and she watched numbly as the wind sifted them through her fingers. Her breathing quickened and Clarke tried to do what she always did, to put herself back together and carry on, until she could spare a few moments to grieve for the dead.

But not this time.

It was as if everything inside her, every action, every reason she had for committing them, every horrible things that her hands had wrought came crashing over her.

Someone reached a hand out to her and she cringed back, holding up her hands as if to ward him off. "Don't touch me, Bellemy," she said, her voice coming out as a gasp. She couldn't be comforted by anyone, wouldn't be. She didn't deserve it.

He crouched down beside her, but Clarke couldn't look at him; she continued to stare at her hands, at the eddies of ash that swirled there. "You didn't know, Clarke," he said in a small voice. "There was nothing that could be done."

"They're dead," She whispered, allowing only that one reality inside, that one undeniable truth no words could soothe.

Bellemy didn't try to sugar coat it. "Yeah," he agreed. "They are. But this isn't Mount Weather, Clarke. And you didn't kill them."

Not directly, no. But couldn't he see the hand she'd played in it? The possibility of this having been avoided if only she'd just stayed away? Let them assume her dead? Because this was the good she brought to them alive.

Clarke stood up, so quickly her head spun.

Bellemy kept his eyes on her, understanding and subtle concern marring his features.

"I'll be right back," she said, and without waiting for a response, began walking towards the woods. Only was it when she was sheltered by them did she let the pieces finally break. Her breathing sawed through her lips and she bent over, splaying her hand on the trunk of a tree. Then came the tears, accompanied by a torrent of guilt that flooded through Clarke until she felt as if she were drowning.

"Why?" She asked no one, anger instantly accompanying the grief. "They didn't...they didn't do anything. They didn't do anything..."

Her rage piqued and she smashed her fist against the tree, bark cutting her knuckles. Clarke did it again, harder, and again, only stopping when her fingers and palms were reduced to a bloody mess and the exhaustion made her sink to the forest floor.

She had tried to be strong for as long as she could; had attempted to separate emotions from actions, but without them, she really was no better than Dante. No different from Cage who'd spliced her own people open. But a part of her understood why. Because emotion and action placed together formed a catalyst. A dangerous thing that once started, could rarely be stopped. It consumed. It burned. And consequently, it would either change the person who held it into something they didn't recognize, or destroy them completely.

* * *

Bellemy remained on the sidelines of the ruins, allowing the people to mourn without his intrusion. His wound still throbbed but he'd get something on it soon enough, paying the nag little attention.

A part of him knew it wasn't smart letting Clarke go off into the trees, but she needed the space. This wasn't something he could help her with-had no idea how to, which was something new. Clarke had always been a person who was solidly grounded, in what she believed and the decisions she made. From the start, Bellemy had underestimated her, and realized it only when she'd helped Atom that there was a strength to her he himself didn't possess.

But maybe this time he'd _over_ estimated her. Yesterday, she'd been unorganized, distracted, impulsive, completely uncharacteristic of her. The Clarke he knew was methodical and calculating, waging advantage against weakness in just seconds. He didn't know this Clarke, who after the things she'd endured had made her vulnerable and indecisive.

And if he was going to be honest, that concept jarred him. They'd been a team since the drop ship had first landed on earth. It had been inconvenient and imposing at first, but over time, it had turned into habit. What they decided, they'd done so together. But this...this was something that extended beyond what he had to offer, and he remained where he was, trying to come up with an appropriate timeframe before he'd go after her.

She wasn't gone long, though. Sooner than he expected, Clarke reappeared from the tree, walking towards him with her head lowered.

Another uncharacteristic thing about Clarke.

When she reached him, Bellemy caught sight of her bloodied hands, fisted tightly at her sides.

He wasn't going to say anything, but it slipped out. "Exactly how does that help you, Clarke?" He asked, noting the ribbon of anger woven beneath his words.

She said nothing about it. Instead, she approached his side soundlessly and pulled off the tourniquet around his shoulder. Then she crushed something into her hand and applied a poultice there. Bellemy hissed in a breath at the bite of pain it caused as she pressed it firmly into the wound.

"What is that?" He asked as she redid the tourniquet.

"Clematis flower and comfrey," she answered in a biotic voice. "Clematis eases the pain. Comfrey speeds the healing process."

"When did you learn about plants?"

"When I was here," she answered flatly. She stepped away from him when she was done. "We have to get back," Clarke announced. "Kane needs to know that we're out of time."

Bellemy paused, his brow furrowing in confusion. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Clarke,..."He began slowly, "these people need help."

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze and he saw the whites around her irises were bloodshot and swollen. "We can't help them," she deadpanned, repeating his own words back at him. "The Boat People do not accept aid from anyone outside, and I doubt they'll be willing to start with me."

He stared back at her in surprise. "Clarke-"

"Either we leave now, Bellemy, or I go without you," she said, again in that strange voice, both familiar and foreign to him.

He waited for her to take it back or explain further, but she didn't.

After a moment of silence, Clarke just nodded, shifted on her heels, and began walking away.

Bellemy shook his head, feeling somewhat bewildered and he started after her, quickening his pace to catch up. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back, forcing her to look him in the eye. "This isn't you, Clarke," he said roughly.

Clarke looked away, pursing her lips before returning her gaze to him. "Then what is, Bellemy? What am I? Because I don't know anymore."

He struggled for a response and changed tactics, glancing back at the few Boat People pulling their dead from burned homes. "You cant just leave them," he told her.

But Clarke just shook her head. "Why not? I'm doing them a favor by it."

"By leaving them exposed?"

"By getting myself as far away from here as I can!" She bit out, voice turning hard. "I've tried to help, Bellemy. And look where that's gotten everyone. I try and it makes no difference." She stared at him, and Bellemy had the unsettling feeling she wasn't seeing him, but seeing straight through him. "Maybe my mom was right," she said, pulling out of his hold. "Maybe there are no good guys."

* * *

The horses had been killed in the gunfire, which added a couple days to the journey back. Clarke took her knife and Bellemy managed to locate a spear and bow to use for hunting, though he was bit out of practice.

The first night they'd set camp,-or not so much a camp as it was a small fire and the dirt floor- neither of them tried to speak to each other and lapsed, for the first time, into an uncomfortable silence. Clarke had laid on the cool ground, staring at the star-studded sky all night.

They started again when dawn broke, and Clarke continued to redress Bellemy's wounds. A few times he'd tried to speak to her, but she'd shut herself down. If they spoke, she didn't want to be reminded of the village and Clarke couldn't afford distraction. She needed movement, and to stay focused, repeating her list over in her head. Get to Mount Weather. Warn Kane. Start planning battle tactics for when the Ice Nation arrived. Anything else beyond that Clarke closed off, blocking it out with walls she'd tediously composed around her.

They came down though when she did manage to sleep, waking from dreams of burning homes and bodies, exchanged images between it and those she'd killed in Mount Weather. She had another nightmare about Dante again, and even one of Cage that jolted her awake hours before the sun broke from the mountains. But there was little solace in waking from them.

Despite that though, Clarke still tried to appear relatively normal. But it was very clear she wasn't fooling Bellemy, who eyed her warily every morning they started off again. Nearly three days Clarke had gone without sleep, two more with a poor quality of it, and it was soon becoming obvious by the blurring of her vision and how she kept tripping over rocks she hadn't managed to see. They were unarmed, though and isolated, with scouts from the Ice Nation undoubtedly nearby. stopping could cost them their lives.

That was enough to keep Clarke moving, even if she was close to collapse.

"We'll camp here for the night," Bellemy announced even though the sun had yet to set, impaling the spear into the rocky ground. They stood close to a babbling stream, the area covered in thick brambles of tree and bush that hopefully be difficult to clearly spot them through.

Clarke shook her head, ignoring the way the world seemed to tilt on its axis. "No, We can't stop."

Bellemy didn't budge. "Clarke, you're help to no one in that condition. Our chances are better if you're rested than if you're not."

"We don't have the time," She insisted.

"We'll make the time."

"Bellemy, the scouts could be-"

"Yeah, they could," he answered passively. "And if they are, they've either decided not to kill us or we're already dead."

He was right, she knew, and didn't so much as cave as her legs suddenly lost their support. She curled up the remaining pieces of her jacket and rested her head on it, too exhausted to argue. "We leave earlier, though," she said.

"If we're not killed before then," he muttered, retrieving a piece of meat carved from a bird he'd caught.

But Clarke was already asleep.

* * *

 _The little girl stood in the shore, kicking water with her feet. Droplets sprung up around her, shimmering like jewels in the sunlight._

 _Clarke felt a smile tug on her lips and the walls around her disappeared, relief crashing through them as she went to meet the girl. Her hair wove smoothly down her shoulders, a silk curtain cutting across her back. But when Clarke reached the shoreline, the little girl wandered out farther, drifting away from her._

 _Clarke tried to call out, but her voice was gone and instead, took a step into the glistening pool._ _But as soon as her foot touched the surface, ice blossomed up, coating the expanse of water in a flaky frost._

 _Panic gripped around Clarke as she looked back up at the girl, who'd seemed to vanish from sight. Her breath clung to the air and she turned around, searching the huts that lined the shore for her._

 _But at the sight she found there, Clarke stilled, eyes going wide as she took in the columns of fire consuming the huts, huge tendrils of orange licking up the roofs, reducing it all to ash._

 _And in the midst of it, stood that little girl, staring back in obvious terror._

 _Clarke tried to reach her, but it was as if a huge transparent barrier had appeared, keeping her on this side. She slammed her hand against it, shouting, begging, but nothing changed._

 _She couldn't do anything except watch from this frozen world as the other burned_.

Clarke lurched forward, her shirt plastered to her back with sweat and she gripped fistfuls of dirt, taking in deep breaths of cold air.

Bellemy shifted in her direction, sitting up slowly when she did. "You all right?" He asked.

Evidently too breathless to speak, Clarke nodded, shaking her head as if she were trying to rid it of something. "Yeah," she assured. "I'm fine."

Maybe Bellemy should've let it go, but he didn't. "Clarke, you need to find some way to stop blaming yourself," he said, gauging her reaction carefully.

He'd never had to be careful around her.

"We've all done bad things," he added.

Clarke wrapped her arms around her knees, fingers still bandaged from the damaged she'd caused them. She took inhaled slowly. "You make that sound like that's supposed to minimize it somehow."

It was Bellemy's turn to shake his head. "No. Bad things shouldn't be justified, they can only be forgiven. But here..." he grappled for the right words. "We were forced into compromising situations where we had to choose between two evils. Choices that shouldn't have been ours to make but they were and we both have to find a way to live with that."

Her eyes skirted away from him before coming back. "How do you do it?"

Belly swallowed his scoff, twisting around to face her more clearly. "There's two sides to every coin, Clarke, and there will always be a second party that can either oppose you or stand with you. And they're the ones that make that choice, even if you do all the right things." He looked at her sternly. "Cage knew that. We may have killed his people, but only because he was willing to sacrifice them."

A line drew between Clarke's brow as she took in his words and Bellemy thought that was it; that she'd turn in on herself again.

But to his surprise, she didn't.

"What are yours like?" She asked.

Bellemy didn't need her to clarify. He knew she was referring to the dreams, but he was still taken off guard that she'd ask. He'd never figured himself as the sharing type, but he'd give it a try, just this once.

"They're usually about Mount Weather," He confessed. "Not just in the control room, but also when I was...trapped there. I'll see all these wires attached to me and it feels so real..." His voice faded away as he recalled the memories, that agonizing feeling of being subjected to whatever torture awaited you.

Before Clarke could use that against herself, he asked on impulse. "You?"

Clarke stared back at him dubiously, allowing a few moments of silence to trickle between them. "Dante makes quite a few appearances," she revealed, her shoulders relaxing slightly as if that information bore a physical weight. "And Cage. What happened in the Ice Nation...sometimes it's them instead." She gave a noncommittal shrug.

Bellemy clenched his jaw, feeling anger swell inside him. "They'll pay for what they've done, Clarke," he promised, speaking of the Ice Nation. "For the lives they took, just as we will."

He looked at her determinedly. "Maybe here, good guys don't exist, but the good in people still do."

Clarke looked at him, her expression somber. "And how do you know when you've lost it?"

Bellemy gazed into her eyes reflected in the moonlight, and didn't look away as he said, "When you stop feeling for those you hurt. The nightmares, the guilt, it's proof that you care, Clarke. And it's when you lose that, that you become like them."

He watched her deliberate over the concept before she offered him the ghost of what used to be a smile. Then she settled back down and he followed suit, using his good arm to prop up his head.

He wasn't sure what provoked him to start humming an old song, as if the melody had come out on its own accord. It was something he used to sing to Octavia, back when she was the only person he'd promised to protect.

Clarke gave him no indication she wanted him to stop and he kept going, letting the tune lull them both into sleep for once free of nightmares.

* * *

When the mouth of Mount Weather came into view, a pit of foreboding settled in Clarke's chest. It worsened the closer they got, until the Philpott Dam appeared before them, now alive wirh rushing water.

Patrols were stationed by the steel door and they signaled to unlock it, the huge circular piece swinging open. With a final glance cast at each other, they walked inside, the brightness of mod afternoon replaced by cold fluorescent light.

Octavia was the first to appear, throwing her arms around Bellemy and smiling at her brother. But there was something strained in her expression that only worsened as she took in his expression and Clarke's hands.

"What happened?" she asked.

Clarke acted as if she hadn't heard it. "We need to talk to Kane."

As soon as she'd said it he appeared, clad in his usual black gear and eyeing both of them skeptically. His expression turned oblique. "Medical labs," he ordered brusquely. "Now."

"Wait," Octavia intercepted. "Clarke, I really need to talk to you-"

"Later, Octavia," she said.

As Kane turned and began walking down the corridor, with Bellemy and Clarke on his heels. Some waved to them as they passed but Clarke made no move to acknowledge them, walking quickly through the levels until they'd reached the medical labs.

White walls.

White beds.

Abby stood in one of them holding some kind of medication, but put it down as soon as her eyes landed on her daughter. Clarke couldn't look at her as her mom came over and hugged her, an embrace which she could barely bring herself to return. But she stepped out of it quickly, turning back to Kane.

"I take it you failed to form an alliance," he accused.

Clarke spared herself only a breath. "The Ice Nation sent an attack on the Boat People," she said. Her voice dropped a few notes. "Less than a third survived."

Kane just stared at her for a moment, lips pressed into a terse line. "Didn't you say that it would be weeks before they came down?"

Clarke dismissed the twist of guilt that shot through her. "I thought there would be. I found nothing in the Queen's chambers to indicate an attack on the Boat People."

Kane's eyes turned cold, yet burned like lit coals. "You were followed then."

Clarke said nothing. She'd arrived at that conclusion herself days ago.

"I shouldn't have condoned it," he snapped. "It wasn't worth the risk."

"Without numbers, you have to start using strategy to your advantage," Clarke quickly interjected. "Every one they don't have. You could use mines to cut down their Scouts."

"Not if they're watching our every move," he fired back.

"Then use decoys," she proffered. "And the put the real ones somewhere else."

Kane was already processing, taking her suggestions into account. "I'm calling up Matthews. Get Raven and that other kid up here immediately."

For once, Clarke did as he said, leaving him and her mother far behind. Bellemy fell into step beside her, but when they turned the corner, they were met with Octavia, nearly crashing into them.

"Clarke-"

"Octavia," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "I said I'd speak with you later. This is really imp-"

"No," she interrupted, glaring back at her indignantly. " _This_ is important."

Clarke tossed up her hands. "I don't have time to fight you. I need to get Raven." She tried going around Octavia, but the girl whipped out an arm, forcing Clarke back.

"O, now's not the time," Bellemy scolded, but Octavia held her ground. "Oh, now is exactly the time, Big Brother." She pulled back her hand. "Look, I know you've both had a pretty bad day, but I'm hear to tell you that it gets worse. I see that you're both equally in a hurry, but luckily, I only need one of you." Her eyes fell to Clarke.

Bellemy appraised his sister, from her Sky boots to her grounder gear. "What's this about, Octavia?"

She waved him off. "Not you, I promise. But it is about Clarke which is why I need her to come with me now."

Clarke met Octavia's gaze. "This can't wait?"

The younger Blake gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Clarke, I'm not really giving you an option here."

Clarke studied her expression, one she'd seen on her many times. She recognized the finality in it, and nodded. She turned to Bellemy. "Get Matthews and Raven. I'll meet you back in the medical labs."

Suspicion flickered across his features but he nodded and moved on.

Then Octavia was practically dragging Clarke away, down one corridor after the other.

"Where are we going?" Clarke asked, having to walk quickly to keep up with Octavia who discared her question instantly. "Walk slower, Clarke. It's not like we're in a hurry or anything," she hissed, nearly breaking into a sprint.

Clarke sighed irritability, but quickened her pace, until they'd returned to the steel door, unguarded from the inside. Before Clarke could ask, Octavia opened it, shooting daggers at any questioning glances.

She pulled open the door. "Come on," she said, walking back out into the sun.

"Octavia-"

 _"Now, Clarke."_

One of the patrols told her to wait, but she unleashed a flurry of vicious rhetoric that quickly silenced him. Octavia hurriedly led Clarke past them and towards the trees when Clarke tried again. "Octavia, where ars we going?"

Octavia made no move to slow down. "Almost there."

A few yards past the treeline, they were enveloped in woods, the seedy smell replacing the antiseptic one of Mount Weather.

Just when Clarke had had about enough, Octavia stopped so suddenly, it took effort not to ram into her. Clarke's vision roved over the trees, looking for somethibg obvious to explain Octavia's distress. But it wasn't obvious, not at first. Not until a rustle came fron the foliage and Indra sitting atop a brown horse emerged.

A small twinge of resentment boiled inside Clarke at the memory of their last encounter, nearly reoccurring in almost in the same place. Clarke didn't feel much contempt to the Woods tribe. She didn't blame them completely for their actions, but she didn't trust them either.

Clarke eyed the woman, brown eyes staring right back.

Seconds passed before they spoke, and Clarke took that as her cue. "What are you doing here, Indra?" she asked, trying to keep her voice as civil as possible.

Octavia refereed. "You need to hear what she has to say, Clarke."

But this wasn't something else she needed to deal with today. "I'm not angry if that's what this is about-"

"This has nothing to do with your emotional trivia, Clarke of the Sky People," Indra snapped. "It is of something much higher in priority." Her voice turned grim. "I come with a message for you."

Clarke glanced once at Octavia, feeling suddenly uncertain, before meeting the grounder's intense gaze once more. "What is it?"

Indra stared back, her eyes boring into Clarke's. "The Commander is dead."


	8. The Message

**So it's BellAmy, not BellEmy. Got it. I'm going to start from this point on referring to him as "Bellamy." Sorry about that misspelling. And also, I hope the last chapter wasn't too uncharacteristic of Clarke. She never really...has that breakdown and I guess after everything she's dealt with, I found it almost inhuman of her NOT to. So I hope that was written okay. Anyway, next chapter. :)**

Indra's words made Clarke pause and she shook her head to clear it. "What?"

The grounder's expression didn't change, as if the features were carved from granite. "The Ice Nation struck us when we weren't prepared," Indra said. "It was a swift death." There was subtle anger in her voice, and it was the only indication to Clarke that she cared.

Clarke cared, too. After everything that had happened, Lexa had once been her friend. She still harbored some resentment towards them, for the nagging sensation of _what if_ their assistance could've reaped at Mount Weather.

Would those people still be alive? Could any of them have been saved?

That betrayal from the Woods People still stung and had ultimately broken the trust Clarke once had for them. She still felt a pang of loss, though, for a young leader gone too soon and a people now struggling for direction. But after all the death she'd just seen, it was a sensation she was steadily growing accustomed to.

Clarke sombered. "I'm sorry, " she spoke earnestly. "But that still doesn't explain to me why you're here."

"I need you to come with me, Clarke of the Sky People," was her only response and it sounded more commanding than inviting.

Clarke raised her eyebrows, giving no outward signs of compliance. "I understand your loss is heavy, Indra," she said, speaking clearly and keeping her voice firm. "But we are facing our own war right now. And I'd like _my_ people to come out of it alive."

Her face remained resolute. "As would I."

Clarke nodded. "Then at least on this, we're in agreement." Clarke turned on her heel to leave, but Octavia pulled her back before she had the chance to make it a step. "Clarke, you've got to listen this time," Octavia demanded, her tone laced with ferocity.

Clarke whipped around, dismissing her own concerns for civility now. "No, I don't, Octavia. I am not indebted to the Woods Clan. And I have more pressing issues to deal with right now."

She tried to move away from Octavia but then something cold kissed her neck and her entire body stiffened on instinct. Indra had dismounted in that instant, and now held a long Seax blade to Clarke's throat, the tip gleaming in the light.

Images filtered through her mind in an instant, of cold rooms and knives stained red. She tried to remain calm, though, even when her breath began shuddering between her lips in quiet gasps.

"Indra," Octavia said, her voice disapproving, but it sounded too optional for Clarke's preference.

With slow care, she turned around, meeting Indra once again. "This is what was so important, Octavia?" Clarke asked, and for once, she couldn't keep the hiss out of her words.

She shook her head. "No," Octavia said. "She just needs our cooperation, and we all know you can be...disagreeable."

"This? This is disagreeable to you?" She shot an incredulous look at Octavia out of the corner of her eye. "Its more like an execution."

"No one's killing you, Clarke," Octavia said, exasperated. "At least, no one present. The Ice Nation wants all of us dead and burned to a crisp, so I suggest if you really want to help everyone in Mount Weather, you do as she says."

Clarke stared back at Indra, into dark eyes that revealed nothing but a cold defiance. "Do I honestly have a choice in the matter?" She asked.

Indra didn't lower the blade. "No."

* * *

"Do you know what this is about?" Clarke asked Octavia as they walked through it woods, Indra behind with the blade still in her hands.

"I don't know the specifics," Octavia said. "Some Clan secrets Indra just can't tell me. I'm surprised she even did, after what happened at Mount Weather." Her words dropped off a bit abruptly.

Clarke glanced sideways at her. "Did she take you back as her second?"

Octavia shook her head, stepping over a large rock partially imbedded in the ground.

"Then why would she tell you anything?" Clarke knew Octavia wasn't revealing her extent of intel she had of this, and tried to purge what she could of it.

Clearly, this wasn't something Octavia thought important to keep to herself. "Because I was the only one who could get to you."

"What about Lincoln?"

"I don't think Indra trusts him anymore than she does me," Octavia deadpanned. "But I could reach you quicker than he could've and besides, you and Lincoln aren't exactly friends, Clarke."

Clarke couldn't deny that granule of truth, but they were far from enemies, as well.

She subconsciously lowered her voice. "Does he know?"

"No one outside you both has knowledge of Heda's death," Indra piped up behind them, her voice still devoid of sentiment. "It will be kept that way for the time being."

Clarke fully understood why. For the Ice Nation to discover that the Woods Clan was without a leader would be an opportune moment to strike them down dead. "Until when?" Clarke asked, casting a look at Indra over her shoulder.

She didn't meet it. "Enough talking," she snapped. "We go in silence."

The rest of the journey was trekked in quiet, nothing but the sounds of scampering feet or the hollering of birds surrounding them. Clarke kept scanning the rough terrain in front of her, wary of any sudden movement. She guessed Indra must already have scouts patrolling the area, but this time, it didn't comfort Clarke.

Now it was almost threatening, as they snaked their way through the woods, deeper and deeper until pieces of human voices finally perturbed the silence.

Clarke had already noted the marks of familiarity a mile back, but it was still surreal to be here once again, approaching the moss-eaten statue and the stone entry of Tondc. Grounders stood by it as they walked past, dipping their chins to Indra as she took up the rear. Once beyond them, the camp unfurled before Clarke, full of people milling around her. Many eyed her curiously, some suspiciously, but all stared.

It took a minute for Clarke to pinpoint something that bothered her about the people. There was something different now, a distinct sense of wrongness, clinging to the hushed Tree People. Their usual activity seemed slower to Clarke, too careful, too repressed.

She also remembered the place to be heavily laden with grounders, but now there seemed to be visible gaps, of where they shouldve been.

Clarke looked at Indra as she dismounted, and someone came to collect her horse. "How many did you lose?"

Indra didnt look at her. "Enough."

Clarke sympathized with her loss, but that was all she did. "What now?" She asked, looking back at the Grounders passing her, still giving her a multitude of expressions. "You have me here. And I want to know why."

"This way," Indra turned her back to her and Octavia, and began walking into a a crudely constructed building, the one Clarke recognized as the council room, composed of stone and bricked with mud. A table expanded across the middle of the floor, empty except for the candlelight. It cast a spectral glow over the walls and the one other face that occupied the room.

Clarke didn't recognize the older man, his long hair twisted in a Grounder fashion, blue eyes appearing grey in the dim light, but Indra made blunt introductions. "This is Tyrell," she said and the bearded man lowered his head obediently. "My second-in-command."

Clarke wondered how Octavia took that as she nodded in acknowledgement. Then she returned her attention to Indra, hoping she caught the message in her eyes, willing her to answer her questions.

But if Indra saw it, she ignored it and simply gazed pointedly at Clarke. "Octavia has told of your duration spent in the Ice Nation," she said, voice brusque and Clarke instantly tensed, to brace against the rush of memories that came with just that vague reminder.

But she feigned composure in front of everyone, rearranging her face to hopefully appear passive. "So thats what you want," Clarke replied. "You want me for information."

"I already know of the Ice Nation, Clarke," Indra countered. "You have thought some of our ways were cruel, but I'm sure to you they pale in comparison to the Ice Nation's methods. Or perhaps you never saw much on that front."

Clarke licked her lips, suppressing the urge to look away. She'd seen much torture inflicted there, the most of it being her own.

"What's that have to do with anything?" she asked.

Again, Indra deigned not to answer, speaking only what she wanted instead. "We've sent scouts to the Ice Nation before, most of which have returned in less than ideal conditions, and not necessarily in one piece."

Clarke smirked at that.

"Its difficult to get close to the Ice Nation to find a weakness, and so your feat is ...an impressive one," Indra admitted almost bitterly.

The sudden credit given to her took Clarke off guard and she felt her eyes widen slightly. Even Octavia showed signs of meager surprise.

"Thank you," Clarke muttered, though the words tasted sour in her mouth. "But that doesn't tell me anything. If it's not information you want, then what is it?"

"You know the commander has left us," Indra said, "if not a bit prematurely. And that misfortune puts us in a compromising position."

Clarke clenched her hands together, her impatience steadily growing, but contained it as best she could. "Is it an alliance you want?" She asked. "Because you called on the wrong person. I'm not their leader anymore, and you've already shown you can't be trusted."

"I do not like this anymore than you," Indra barked coolly. "But I'm under orders."

Clarke paused. "The Commander is dead," she recited. "Now who's orders do you follow?"

This time, Indra answered her question, voice giving nothing away. "The next commander has been chosen, but she is young and yet to be mentored, which makes her incapable of leading our people. Age is irrelevant; my rank is still beneath her, but these circumstances are, plainly put, a rarity."

Clarke struggled to read past the implication."Then has she made you Commander? Is that even done?" She didn't know the complex history or process by which their leaders were chosen, but knew they were not picked as a Democracy.

Indra gazed back at her, but said nothing. a few moments of silence lapsed until she spoke. "When Heda is unable to lead, she appoints a Locum. Someone placed temporarily in charge, until her mentoring is made complete."

Clarke took in each word, feeling herself blanche. "And who was chosen?"

Indra's gaze penetrated through Clarke and sudden alarm shot through her, singing in her veins and sparking her nerves to life. she barely heard Indra's voice over the roar in her ears.

"You."


	9. The Lesser of Two Evils

**This chapter was a little tricky and I hope I did it right. I can't say too much in these author notes because...*River's voice* "spoilers." But luckily, I have already written out how this fanfiction will go, so I hopefully will not suffer from much writer's block. Words of encouragement do keep up the motivation so please supply me with them. And as always, thank you!**

Seconds passed before Clarke could find her voice, too struck with astonishment to speak. "How..." she started. "I was-"

"Chosen by the Commander to fulfill her position until she is able to do so herself," Indra finished for her, unaware of the impact her words had on Clarke.

She was finding it difficult to stand, unable to catch her breath over the lump that appeared in her throat. "Why would she choose me?" She asked. "How can she? I'm not even one of you."

"A sky person without its wings is just another grounder," Indra said. "It is true that you do not share our customs and you can trust I did my best to dissuade Heda from such a decision, but she was adamant. It is clear she thought your experience and time spent within the Ice Nation overruled your origin. And it is her people that broke the alliance. That responsibility has fallen to her."

Clarke's fingers were trembling and she suddenly wanted out, to be away from this room. From everyone here. "I'm not suited for this," she said insistently. "She needs to choose someone else."

Indra's eyes seemed to turn to stone. But before she spoke, the man, Tyrell, stepped forward. "Once decided, it cannot be undone," he said, stormy eyes meeting hers."You were chosen, Clarke Griffin. It is you who must lead us."

But Clarke was shaking her head, raising her palms to them. "You don't want me as your leader."

"I'm sure some of us agree with you on that," Indra concurred. "But I will admit, your leadership skills speak louder than your words."

Clarke gave her a hard look, trying her best to mask her mounting panic."I didn't...I don't want this."

Indra mirrored the steel in her voice. "No one did. But as you said, We are facing war, and Heda could think of no one more capable than you to guide us, a girl who still saved her people even without our aid. who made it inside the Ice Nation and managed escaped. "

Clarke's vision swam. "And you think that makes me qualified? Do you know how I saved my people?" She asked, desperation leeching into her voice. "By killing everyone in the mountain men. All of their people. Are you really willing to put yours under my command?"

Indra didn't even bat an eye. "Octavia has already informed us of your obstacles. It took strength to make that decision, and it only gives Heda more reason to approve of you."

Clarke turned her eyes on Octavia, the anger and panic inside her brimming over the rim. "You knew about this," she said and Octavia didn't bother denying it.

"I just knew they wanted you as a leader," she said. "I didn't know the circumstances that influenced it."

Clarke felt a stab of hurt, but shook her head again. "No," she announced. "I won't do it."

Indra glowered at her "If you don't lead the Woods Clan, Clarke, no one will."

"Clarke," Octavia looked at her but she didn't meet the younger Blake's eyes. "If you do this, you can fix the alliance with the Sky People. Then we might stand a chance against the Ice Nation."

But Clarke couldn't focus on that, not while her heart slammed against her ribcage and pounded through her head, making it hard to think.

 _I don't want to be responsible for lives anymore._

"You can pick someone else," she said, "You just don't want to."

Indra clenched her jaw, so hard she nearly spit through her teeth. "It is not our way."

Clarke stared back at her, the echo of her words resounding in her mind. "Then you've condemned yourselves."

With that, Clarke twisted away from them and this time, no one bothered stopping her. She caught Indra say something to Octavia and then she followed after, but Clarke was already running. She maneuvered her way through the grounder compound, trying to keep from looking at any faces.

She would not be responsible for more lives, would not be the one to put more people in the ground. She'd already killed the Mountain Men, and helped burn down the Boat People. In spite of what people saw her as, she wasn't a leader. She wasn't just Clarke. She was a person, with blood on her hands and a list of the dead forever trailing in her wake.

* * *

Clarke didn't stop until she reached Mount Weather, ignoring Octavia that wasn't far behind. The patrols opened the door and she slipped through, only then allowing herself to catch her breath. Sweat dripped from her forehead and stung her back and she took in lungfuls of air, still struggling to grasp the events that had just taken place.

But when Octavia came through a few minutes later, Clarke resumed her walk, towards the medical labs.

"Clarke!"

She didn't answer, not trusting her voice to give everything she was feeling away. Octavia had tricked her and she wasn't in the mood to give her any leeway.

"Clarke, listen to me!"

Again, she didn't wait, fast walking through Mount Weather and down the corridors until she'd reached the second level. From the distance, she caught sight of Bellamy's broad figure through a glass pane.

Something latched at Clarke's back and whipped her around, nearly causing her to sprawl across the floor.

"Clarke, you _need_ to listen!" Octavia said, loud enough for a few of the others to hear.

But Clarke was shaking, adrenaline, rage, and fear mingling together, forming a component that was explosive.

When she spoke, it was an order. "Let go."

Octavia didn't. "I understand that what you did here was hard," she said. "But are you really willing to risk all our lives because you just don't want to do it?"

Clarke pulled away with such force that Octavia stumbled, losing her grip. "I'm not responsible for them," Clarke hissed, barely recognizing her own voice. It was both hot with fury and cold with a deadly malice.

"You're responsible for this," Octavia fired back. "No matter what you decide, the result is on you."

That struck a nerve and Clarke froze, as if the words had rendered her immobile. What was this? Why couldn't she ever seem to escape from a position that would always claim lives? "It's not on me," She said, her voice finally raising. _It can't be._

"Yes, it is, Clarke. You can actually give us a fighting chance and you won't. What happened to you?" She asked, tone heavy with respite. "You go off for half a year and suddenly think you have no responsibilities anymore?"

"This is more than just responsibilities, Octavia," She shot back. "You're asking me to be in charge of lives!"

"Which you've done! You kept us alive!"

 _"At the expense of hundreds of others!"_ Clarke screamed, her outburst reverberating around the room. The hall went silent, and Clarke became aware of the tears in her eyes but quickly blinked them back. "I'm not in any position to lead people, Octavia," She said, sounding suddenly tired.

But her friend wasn't quick to concede. "You heard what Indra said, Clarke. Everything you've done. What you know about the Ice Nation-"

"I already told Kane all I know."

"You spent four months there, Clarke," Octavia reminded. "You must've gained some intel from that. It's clearly more than anyone else ever managed."

"You want to know what I learned?" Clarke asked, her anger returning, or maybe it was just desperation, she couldn't tell the difference anymore. There was no point in hiding it from everyone now.

"I learned the torture methods of the Ice Nation," She said, ignoring the approach of the others from the medical labs, nearing the hallway they stood in. "I learned that their preference for it was blades, dipped in acid. Sometimes poison. I learned how many lashes a person could take before it killed them." She pulled up The back of her shirt to show Octavia.

Just then, Kane, Abby, and Bellamy entered, and Clarke saw her mother's face go ashen. Clarke dismissed it, keeping her eyes on the younger girl. "Exactly how does that help them, Octavia? By telling them what they'll have to survive? Share with them how to do it?" She looked at her sadly. "What makes you think they'll want to? Sometimes even I wish I didn't."

* * *

Clarke left them behind in the labs, walking back down the way she'd come. Her mother had tried to speak but Clarke had just passed by her.

There weren't many private quarters in Mount Weather and she settled for an isolated corridor to think in. She placed her hands over the wall's cold surface and let her forehead rest against it.

Her secret was out but that was her last concern, as Octavia's words still continued to burn in her mind. She was right. The person she'd once been would've faced this. But Clarke didn't know where that woman had gone. Had she perished when Clarke had pulled that lever? Or in the Ice Nation? Maybe it began as early as Rubicon, but it all had chipped away at that person, until there were only pieces remaining.

Maybe her refusal would drive some sense into the Woods Clan, but that in itself was a risk. The grounders weren't one to let go of customs they'd held onto for over 97 years.

Clarke took a deep breath. It was just like Bellamy had said; they were placed in a compromising position that they had to make a choice, and pick the lesser of two evils.

She stayed like that, unaware of how much time had passed when footsteps finally sounded down the corridor, and Clarke only lifted her forehead from the stone, already knowing they were too heavy for it to be a woman.

They stopped a few yards away. "Octavia told me," Bellamy said, but Clarke made no response, just continued to stare at the stone beneath her fingertips. Even Bellamy was better suited for the role than her. Yes, he shared the burden of the action that had cost the Mountain men their lives, but he was still able to lead. It was written in the compliance of his guards, in the way even young boys stood up a bit straighter when he passed them by.

A part of her didn't know what to expect from him. Anger? But he just said in an unfeeling voice, "You could do it, Clarke."

She shook her head. "I can't, Bellamy. I'll just end up costing more lives."

He took a step closer. "Look, I'm not going to pretend to know exactly what you're feeling, because it's not just about Mount Weather. It's everything else after it."

More steps. Now he stood right beside her and Clarke finally looked at him, his brown eyes staring into hers. "But this is something you need to consider, because no matter what you choose, people are going to die."

She but her lip until she tasted the copper tang of blood. "And I'm helping both sides to that fate, aren't I?" Clarke scoffed. "Either way, I have blood on my hands, Bellamy. We all do. But I don't want to add more. I don't want the price of survival to outweigh the cost of death." The tears collected in her eyes again, blurring his features. "Because then what's the point? What's the point in being alive if others have to keep dying for it?"

Bellamy put his hands on her shoulders and twisted her around, gripping them gently but firmly. "You are not taking lives inocent Clarke," he said. "You are giving these people, us, a chance. Those who die, will die because they chose to fight in this war, to fight for their families and everything they believe in. You can't prevent death, Clarke, but you can define the purpose they meet it for."

Clarke faltered, taking in a trembling breath. "I don't want this," she repeated her earlier words.

Bellamy loosened his grip but didn't look away from her. "I wish there was another way. For any of this. But there's not and you still have a decision to make."

Clarke's breathing quickened. "But I don't know what I'll do!" She said. "I...I don't know."

"I have my own theory," he told her and looked at him pleadingly.

He rubbed his thumbs over her shoulders and stared into her eyes."First you'll go through every other scenario. You will not leave one possibility unturned. And when you see there is no other way, you'll start strategizing, entertaining the thought, just for a second. Then more. And slowly, you'll start to feel it, right here." He prodded the area just over her heart. "You'll get mad, you'll get pissed off like the rest of us and you'll want to do everything that's in your power to stop those that hurt you and the people you care about. And you'll feel like you can. You know what that's called?"

Clarke stared back, gauging his words carefully.

"Its called hope," he said. "And that, that is what you are to us, Clarke."

His words sparked something in her, like two wires placed too close. She gazed up at him, scrutinizing the truth in his eyes, the confidence in his voice. "But what if I did this and failed?"

The confidence didn't waver. "To fail means you at least tried. And to not try at all is the real loss."

Clarke wasn't one to admit when she was afraid. But she was now. She wanted to deny the situation, to forget Indra's words and allow someone else to lay claim to what she so desperately wanted not to be hers. But she couldn't. People would die. One way or another, blood would be shed. She still tried to find some way out, a small tear in her reality where another one hopefully existed beyond it.

There wasn't one. Bellamy pulled back, clearly opting to give her space. "It's your choice, Clarke," he said. And she watched him go, not looking away even after he receded out from view.

* * *

 _"It's your fault," she heard someone speak. Clarke recognized the voice a_ _nd placed it instantly. Dante._

 _"You could have saved them," he said._

 _Clarke wanted to say something back, but then a new voice appeared from the darkness. "We're the same, you and I, Clarke," Cage suddenly whispered and she could see him clearly in her mind. "Don't you see that?"_

 _Then more voices burst forth._

 _She heard Phlox scream her name; caught Tolia's cry in the distance._ _Even those she didn't know like Maia spoke up. "I didn't want to die there," she said in an empty voice. "I helped you."_

 _"You're responsible for this," Octavia's words echoed, mingling with the others. "No matter what you decide, the result is on you."_

 _I don't want it, Clarke thought back, but it did nothing to stop the voices, the shouts, the pleas that sounded around her, encasing her in a relentless stream of blame. It only became louder until Clarke could barely hear herself think._

 _"You killed them all," Dante continued._

 _"You're a murderer, Clarke," Cage spat._

 _More piled onto it until she could no longer distinguish one voice from the other and they became one huge shout of guilt, screaming from every recess of her mind. She begged for it to end, for them to cease their torment and struggled to hold on to something, to anything that would help keep her afloat._

 _"If you need forgiveness, I'll give that to you," Bellamy's voice chimed, a fragmented whisper reaching through the cacophony of screaming guilt. "You're forgiven, Clarke."_

 _She latched onto it desperately, closing her eyes and focused on those words instead, until they became louder and louder, drowning the others out. A quietness enveloped her and she thought it was over._

 _But when she opened her eyes, she blinked in the sudden light, the room swimming into view around her._ _Her breath caught in surprise._

 _She stood in her old home, the apartment she'd lived in on the Ark. Everything was how she'd remembered it. Same cold flooring and furnishings. Same picture on the walls. She even caught sight of one of her drawing pads, strewn over the coffee table._

 _"Home early?" Someone asked from behind her and Clarke whirled around, her heartbeat stuttering within her chest._

 _Her father stood in the kitchen, holding a cup to his lips. Hand in a pocket as he watched her, one foot sticking out more than the other, just how she remembered he used to stand. It felt normal that he was here, but also different, like there was something out of place she was missing._

 _"Dad?" She couldn't believe it, and almost didn't speak, afraid it would chase this picture away. But her feet seemed to move on their own accord until she was just inches from him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He responded, grasping her firmly and she smiled into his shoulder. "I missed you," she whispered._

 _"You still have a decision to make," he replied, his words shattering the moment like glass._

 _She stepped out of the embrace, and stared back up at him, into the very eyes that had given Clarke her blue ones. Maybe this was some kind of trick, but her father still looked like her father, without any traces of contempt or judgement in his features._

 _"What?" she asked hesitantly._

 _"The decision," he repeated. "It's a whopper isn't it? So have you decided yet?"_

 _It took her a moment to recover from her initial shock, but it started to feel...normal, like a regular conversation, yet she somehow knew he understood exactly what they were talking about. Perhaps this wasn't a trick. Maybe it was a gift._

 _"I don't know what to do," she admitted. "I'm scared, Dad. I'm terrified that I'll be responsible for it all. For everyone that dies and I can't...I can't keep doing it. I can't keep surviving it." This was easier to tell him for some reason and it eased a little of the weight from her shoulders to speak with brutal honesty._

 _Her father studied her and took her hand, leading her over to the couch. They both sat down. "The things you've done, Clarke...," he sighed. "They'll stay with you forever. It's a price we all pay. But it can also be used for the good of other people. Because the bad things you do first, help you do things differently the next time around."_

 _She pursed her lips. "What if I can't make a different decision? What if I have to choose between two bad things again? I can't...That's too-"_

 _Her father's hand tightened around her own, cutting her off. "Then you accept it. And when it's done, you learn to forgive yourself for it."_

 _Clarke's breath turned shaky. "I don't know how," she confessed. "After all those people..."_

 _"Clarke," her father said, voice stern. "A true tragedy is not when people die, but when they die in vain. Do you believe they did?"_

 _"My people survived," she said. "They wouldn't if I hadn't done what I did."_

 _He nodded. "But you know what is in vain? To refuse to do all you can to keep them that way." He cupped her cheek in his palm. "You aren't just fighting for your people, Clarke. You're fighting for those you killed to keep your people alive. But if you stop doing everything you can to help them stay that way, those lives will have been taken in vain."_

 _The reality of his words had a crushing effect and she stared back in silence, at a loss of what to say._

 _"And Clarke," he said. "You have to forgive yourself along the way."_

 _His voice was already fading, the image of him dissipating into the air around her, but Clarke clutched onto his hand for just a little longer, desperate to ask just one last question. "But how do I forgive the person I don't like I've become?"_

 _Her father smiled one last time. "By deciding to become better." Then he disappeared, into a thousand different fragments, glittering like embers before fading from existence._

Clarke awoke with a start, her father's voice still lingering in her mind. She sat there for what could've been hours, letting the words play like a broken recorder over and over. The dream instilled something in her, something she would've missed had she not understood. And then she felt it.

It was faint at first, and she barely recognized it for what it was. But then it grew stronger until there was no denying its presence.

Clarke didn't even know the time, but she sat up and got out of her lower barracks. She hadn't wanted to sleep in one of the apartment rooms, which made it easier, as she didn't have to worry about waking her mother. She didn't bother staying as silent around these slumbering people and made it to the exit and into the long corridor.

 _You aren't fighting for just your people, Clarke._

How had she never seen it? To give up without even starting was to let the mountain men die twice. For the missile to hit Rubicon again. She'd thought that in some way, surviving it all had been the crime. But the real crime was just the opposite.

 _You're fighting for those you killed to keep your people alive._

The truth of that was scouring. It lit up in every part of her and refused to be ignored.

No one was awake yet, but Clarke barely noticed, as she made her way to the apartment rooms. The closer she got, the more that feeling grew, until it felt as if she were burning from the inside out. For the first time in months, Clarke no longer felt cold.

 _If you stop doing everything you can to help them stay that way, those lives will have been taken in vain."_

She stopped in front of one of the doors and started pounding it, unconcerned with waking the others next door. She'd wake the entire mountain if that's what it took.

Her fist was still rapping when it swung open, Bellamy's face appearing before her. His hair was disshelved and he wore regular clothes rather than his usual black gear, but Clarke didn't care. She just stared at him for a moment, watching his expression turn from concern into one of approval.

She didn't wait for him to speak first. "I'm going back to Tondc," she told him, saying it aloud for the first time.

He gave her a knowing look, but still asked anyway. "What for?"

 _How do I forgive the person I don't like I've become?_

 _By deciding to become better._

This time, there was no hesitation in her voice. "To tell the Grounders that they have their Commander."


	10. Fara

**So, I have learned I cannot write on a sugar-high and no coffee. My coffee is needed. It's very important to me. But, moving on from the coffee, I give you the next chapter, which again, I hope is up to parrwith the rest of the story. But I know how it's going to go (cruel laughter) and so far I have not deviated much from the original lay out. I've made additions and some other things and I'm going to keep being really enigmatic over it because that's a writer perk. Sorry, I shall stop tantalizing you folk. Please read and review and again, thank you!**

"This is actually more convenient," Octavia said, as her Clarke, Bellamy, and Lincoln sneaked out of Mount Weather. Bellamy had managed to smuggle out three rifles from the Weapon's Room, Lincoln settling on a bow and arrow. "At least we have no one to stop us," she continued.

Except the guard that stood in front of the door, supervising from the inside at night. But Bellamy dismissed the man, his voice radiating with authority when he dared to try and correct him.

"It's so much better having you as Head of the guard than a delinquent, Brother," Octavia said as they pulled open the door and stepped through it.

He scoffed.

Dawn was still hours away, and a chill clung to the early air, making their breaths visible in the early morning.

Clarke filled her lungs with it, for the first time in six months feeling somewhat content. There was reason in what she decided to do, purpose she hadn't seen before, but had become paramount within the span of a single evening. Her hands still shook uncertainly, but it was okay. Right now, she knew what she was doing.

Lincoln walked in front with Bellamy behind, leaving Octavia and Clarke in the center. The scutterings of animal noises sounded around them, each one bringing Clarke's attention to it. But nothing threatening burst from the trees; no men clutching knives came out of the shadows.

"Octavia, why don't you guard the front with Lincoln?" Clarke asked. She needed to speak with Bellamy.

Octavia seemed to sense that and nodded. But she paused next to her, clearly made uncomfortable by something. "Look, Clarke. I'm sorry for earlier," Octavia said. "About you forgetting responsibility. I didn't know."

Clarke nodded but offered her a small smile. "It's okay. The only reason you didn't know was because I didn't want you to."

Octavia returned the smile and, seemingly satisfied with the exchange, went up to meet Lincoln.

Clarke pulled back, until her steps fell in sync with Bellamy's. He glanced over at her but was quiet for a minute before speaking. "So you're really doing this," he said.

Clarke agreed, the validation of it thrumming like electricity through her body. "Yeah. I am."

He smirked, casting her a ghost of a smile. "Let's just hope this time the alliance will hold."

Clarke let out an airy breath. "It has no choice but to. We'll both make sure of it."

They kept walking but Clarke felt something nag on her and she tapped his arm, forcing him to stop. He did, and eyed her speculatively.

"Bellamy, I need to thank you," she said. "For what you did. What you said. And I also owe you an apology. I'm sorry for making things harder. It wasn't fair to you."

His expression remained the same but he accepted it with a nod. Clarke thought that was it, but then his voice turned a shade darker. "You shouldn't have gone off alone," he said. "When you left. I shouldn't have let you. I'm sorry for that."

They stared back at each other and Clarke wanted to tell him his apology was unnecessary. She'd made the choice to leave and he could take no responsibility for it. He spoke before she could. "Maybe there will come a day when we're not always apologizing and thanking one another."

She chuckled softly at that. "I'm not so sure."

Bellamy shrugged. "Come on. Did you think that any of this would happen?" he asked. "Some things aren't as impossible as they seem."

Clarke shook her head in exasperation as they resumed walking, but looked at him again, this time in what could only be described as wonder. He didn't seem surprised by her decision to return to Tondc. Didn't appear fazed by it. In fact, it was like he'd expected it all along.

"You knew what I was going to decide," she said. It wasn't a question and he merely met her eyes.

"How?"

This time, his smile was real. "Because it's what I would've done."

* * *

The grounder compound was still in slumber when they arrived, all but the scouts who nearly sent an arrow through each of them. One materialized a ways from the stone entry, bow still held aloft until their faces came into view.

Clarke rearranged her features and stayed calm. "I need to speak with Indra," she told him, and though she knew he spoke English, Lincoln still translated.

A second passed. Maybe two. Then he motioned them forward, past the entryway. It was eerie at night; the stones jutting from above looked threatening in the sun's absence, each crevice and crack along its surface bleeding moss. Clarke took a deep breath as they were led through it, her heart pounding almost painfully against her ribcage.

It only grew worse when their guide reached one of the stone buildings, the same one she'd run from just the other day. He pulled the door open.

Inside, Indra again stood above the table, gazing down at a crudely drawn map. More candles were set up, bathing the written mountain regions and river marks in a low light. Tyrell was there as well, and it was as if Clarke had only just disbanded, leaving everything exactly how she'd left it.

Indra glanced over at them, pausing at Lincoln, and her eyes seemed to turn black. "Everyone out," she barked in a cold voice. "Except for you," she looked at Clarke.

An unsettled feeling appeared in Clarke's gut but she squandered it and gave the others a nod. They listened, albeit hesitantly and then Clarke was alone with Indra, who was staring at her with bits of candlelight flickering in her irises.

She didn't remark on the time."You have made your choice," she stated, and Clarke gazed back at her, unflinching under her hard scrutiny. "Yes," she said.  
"And I accept."

"Be warned, Clarke," Indra snapped, "If you so much as risk my people for the Sky people , I will gladly give my life to take yours. The Woods Clan would fair better under no Commander than under a dictatorship."

Clarke let no reaction show on her face. "And I'd let you if I were ever willing to make that kind of call. But you need the Sky People to win this war. So do not misconstrue any alliance I agree to form with treason."

They stared back at each other for a moment, until Indra's gaze broke first. "Very well. I'll send for Heda." She walked past her and out the door and Clarke didn't allow herself a breath until she'd gone. No one made any try to enter and she stood alone in the cold room, except for Tyrell who remained statuesque and silent. Clarke wondered absentmindedly what he was thinking of, to get her own thoughts away from her.

But a couple minutes later, the door opened again and in stepped someone much shorter than Clarke had originally expected. Actually, she'd had very little idea as to what to expect. She'd already known the next Commander was young, but not so young as to be perhaps no more than ten.

A cloak was draped around her shoulders and when she removed the hood, big eyes shown from beneath it. Her skin was dark, darker than Indra's but her eyes were tinged with a light grey, huge orbs glowing in the low light. A mess of black curls framed her heart-shaped face and a car marred her left temple.

Clarke instinctively bowed her head in respect, still recalling the position of power this little girl was in.

"So you're Clarke," The girl said bluntly, her soprano voice ringing like bells as she appraised her.

Clarke nodded. "I am."

"I know," she added. "I remember seeing you here before."

"You speak English," Clarke noted, surprised.

"My father's a Warrior," the little girl explained. "I asked him to teach me your language when I was younger. He agreed because he thought it would be useful." She shrugged letting the rest of the words fall to implication. _And he was right_.

Maybe this wasn't a question Clarke should have inquire about, but it couldn't be helped. "What's your name?" she asked curiously.

The girl didn't hesitate. "Fara," she answered.

Clarke offered a small smile. "Its nice to meet you, Fara."

Then Clarke looked back to Indra, who was watching them warily. "Heda will not be staying here," the grounder chief said. "She will seek refuge in another clan, until this war is over."

"Or until my mentoring is complete," Fara finished. "But for now, I chose you to lead my people." The girl let a hint of a smile creep onto her face. "I think you'll do well."

Clarke struggled to find the right response, but she lost the opportunity when someone appeared in the doorway, and wiped the tiny smile from Fara's features. "We must go, Heda," a gruff voice called and the Commander looked at him, dismay appearing in her face. But she nodded and pulled back her hood.

She paused before the door, and cast Clarke a final glance. "Protect them," she said. "Please."

And then she was gone, disappearing out the door and into the night.

* * *

Bellamy didn't know how much time had elapsed until the shadows began leeching away as dawn approached, sky lighting from black to a dull blue. Already he was beginning to get antsy, his patience waning in the coming day.

"How long does this take?" He asked, and looked over at Lincoln expectantly who stood beside Octavia. Lincoln looked back at him, appearing unfazed by the duration spent outside. "This hasn't happened in my life time," he said. "My guess is as good as yours."

Bellamy sighed. A apart of him considered walking in there himself, as he'd spent the night waging the possibility of this all having been a trick. Some elaborate lie. But he didn't feel like it had been and Instead, he stayed where he was, watching the sky as the shades grew lighter and lighter, soaking up night like a sponge.

"What are they even doing in there?" He asked, as if anyone would supply him with an answer.

"Black jack?" Asked Octavia and Bellamy shot her a glare. "This is serious, O."

"I know that," she nearly barked. "I'm the one who brought Clarke in the first place."

That reminded him and Bellamy turned to his sister, narrowing his eyes at her quizzically. "How did you convince Clarke to come here?" he asked, genuinely curious. Convincing Clarke must not have been an easy feat, and the idea she'd come on her free will bothered him.

Octavia's face gave away nothing. "Indra lent some of her assistance," she said cryptically.

Bellamy stared back at his sister, distrust blooming inside him at the mention of that name. "By force?"

Octavia shrugged. "Clarke can be stubborn."

He waited for her to elaborate, because no,sh e wouldn't have made such as stupid decision, but when she didn't, he shook his head disbelievingly. "And you just accepted that? What if this had been a trap? Did you even question it?"

Octavia turned to him. "Of course I did. I know things were bad after Mount Weather, but I also knew Indra wouldn't have hurt Clarke. She had no reason to."

Bellamy just looked at her. "If you'd been wrong, things could've gone _very_ differently."

Octavia met his eyes, the hardness in her voice matching his. "And if I hadn't, we's still be trying to plan out a war we couldn't win. Some risks had to be taken."

"Or you just felt like you couldn't trust me," he deadpanned and the reality of it stung.

Octavia shook her head. "It had nothing to do with trust-"

"You trusted Indra," Bellamy interrupted. "And instead of coming to me, you let her do whatever it took to get Clarke here."

Octavia searched his eyes confusedly. "But she's _here_ , Bell," she said, as if struggling to understand why he was upset.

And he was. Because his sister hadn't come to him when it mattered. She'd trusted someone who had betrayed all of them, over him. And it was something that very easily could've cost Clarke and Octavia their lives.

"That's what matters," she added.

He let out a rough breath. "That isn't the point. Risks have to be taken, yes. But you took a reckless one, and didn't just put yourself in a vulnerable position, but Clarke, too," he said. "You both could've been killed."

"If I thought that, I wouldn't even have considered it," he shot back, an undertone of anger in her voice.

"Exactly," he snapped back. "Not many of the rest of us would've seen it that way. You let personal interest dictate to your judgement."

"But I was right!"

"This time," he agreed. "Yet you still could've taken precautions and you didn't. I don't care if you didn't speak to me, O, just someone. And you said nothing." Octavia glanced at Lincoln who looked at her once but refused to step in on her was between them.

"Because I couldn't," she confessed. "I know Indra, Bellamy. And I wouldn't risk jeopardizing something so important!"

"And that took priority over your lives?" He asked, finding it difficult to keep his voice down. He lowered it, and took as step closer to his sister. "The truth is that you made an impulsive decision and gave yourself no way out. The only reason you're still alive, was because Indra kept her word. That's it. That one thing, Octavia, something she's already broken once."

"Because I knew I could believe her," Octavia shot back. "And I was right. You make it sound like Clarke was harmed. Or that I was forced. But nothing happened, Bell."

"Oh, every decision has its consequences," he snapped. "Every risk has a loss. Even this one, because in making that choice, you sacrificed my trust. And Clarke's. That's not something given to you, O. That's something you have to earn. And you'll have to earn it back again."

She held up her hands. "Wait, so I make one call, and now you think you cant trust me anymore? Because I went to Indra?"

"Because instead of making a choice together, you made it by yourself. And instead of putting your faith in your people, in _me_ , you put your faith in someone who turned their back on us and _walked away_."

Octavia was about to object, but then the door opened and her voice died in her throat.

Clarke stepped out, followed by Indra who's eyes Bellamy refused to look away from.

"What happened?" Octavia asked, without looking at her brother "Is it finished? Are you the Commander now, or what?"

Indra turned to her. "She is the Locum," she corrected. "And it is not finished yet. Tyrell." The man appeared beside her. "Wake the village. It is time to make the announcement, but keep the Warriors on guard." Indra looked at Clarke. "We have yet to know how well you will be received."

* * *

Clusters of people gathered before her, some shoulder to shoulder, others standing in solitude, but all had their eyes on Clarke. She caught A myriad of emotions dance across their faces. Curiousity. Hostility. Suspicion. Dread. Even hate. But she met each of them sternly, a silent message that she would not back down.

Clarke was done sitting on the sidelines.

Bellamy and the others stood in the crowd, and many cast glances at them, hateful gazes lingering on the guns. They'd been allowed to have them, because _Clarke_ had allowed it. Her first command had been to keep her people armed amongst those she was chosen to lead.

Indra was the first to speak, her voice apathetic but firm, speaking in Triangesleng. Clarke was able to pick out a few words, but then Indra returned to English, and someone else translated.

"The time for war is coming," she said and the people listened to her intently. "The time for more blood to spill, and victory to be claimed. We will not fall to the Ice Nation. And in order to strengthen our people, Heda has appointed her Locum. Someone she deems fit to lead us."

Murmurs rose through the crowd, weaving together in garbled phrases both English and foreign, until it was one monotony of voice and no longer separate words.

Indra slammed her blade down, the edge carving into the dirt. "Silence!"

Everyone complied, the voices dying away as instantly as they'd come. "No one here will dare rebel against the Commander's order. If any of you do so, you will pay with your lives."

"Avi," Clarke heard one of the people in the crowd mumbled and recognized it.

Sky.

Indras eyes fell in the speaker's direction. "Clarke Griffin," she said, her voice rising an octave. "Has agreed to Heda's terms."

A moment of silence passed, fleeting like a heartbeat.

And then, chaos.

"She's Sky!" Someone in English spat, but Clarke refused to flinch. And she heard her own words repeated back at her. "She'd not even one of us!"

"They burned our people!"

"One of theirs murdered my son!"

Clarke felt fear creep into her gut and she tried to find a way to take control of the situation before Indra made good on her threat. Clarke met Bellamy's eyes in the crowd, and he nodded. Then he raised the barrel of the gun up, and fired a few rounds into the air.

The noise was deafening and the shouts ceased. Some grabbed weapons. Others aimed their bows, but Clarke was already directing their attention away from him. "I know that I'm not one of you," she shouted, and had to repeat it more than once.

Tyrell translated for her. "I know I wasn't born on the ground. I know we've killed some of your people, and likewise, you've killed some of ours. We've tried to form alliances, and they've broken before. More than once. And for different reasons." She looked at everyone in the crowd. "When the Sky People first came here, we were your enemies. You were the threat we feared, the one we spent weeks preparing for. And were naive enough to hope that after you, there was nothing else. That you were our greatest barrier.

"But now you're our only hope," she said, taking Bellamy's words and projecting them to everyone. "And we're yours. I am not your enemy anymore. The Sky People are not the enemy anymore. The only enemy now is buried in the mountains. But they've now they've come down from them, and it isn't to negotiate peace."

"I've spent four months in the Ice Nation," she admitted, "I've seen their Queen, and their weapons, and they will not be beaten unless we stand on the same side."

"No one has trespassed beyond their borders and lived," someone said and Clarke turned her attention to an older man, his beard greying. "I have," she said. "Which proves that they aren't invincible." She took a deep breath. If she was going to guide these people, they needed to trust her, and she needed to trust them in turn.

She moved around until her back faced them. This was the last time she'd show her scars, because she no longer had a reason to keep them hidden.

Clarke removed her heavy shirt until she was in a tank top, the wounds snaking out from her shoulder blades. She raised the hem, enough for the grotesque ropes of flesh to be visible to their eyes.

More murmurs sounded.

"I know the ruthlessness of them first hand," Clarke told them. "I've seen what they're capable of. And you do not want to risk any one of you falling into their hands." She turned back to face them. "You thought the Mountain Men were cruel. And they were only doing what they thought they had to in order to save their people. But The Ice Nation will make an example out of you. To every single Clan that thinks they can overrun them. Is that what you want as your future?" She asked, gazing around their wide eyes. "Is that the threat you want against your families?

"We've had our differences. We've both shed each other's blood. Each of our people has mourned for the loss of someone. But war is to compromise. And that means doing what you otherwise wouldn't just to survive. I know none of you like it," she added. "You don't have to like it. But you do need to accept it if we're going to make it out of this alive." Clarke tried to look at each of them, into every face amidst the sea of grounders. "For us to stand together, we need to stop standing in the way."

As a people, they took in her words. But one by one, the hostile glances began to disappear, like fireflies being snuffed out.

Minutes passed and some of them looked at each other, and Clarke prayed it wasn't some kind of signal; that they weren't about to attack. But if they were they made no move to show it.

And Clarke stood unsure until something suddenly changed. To her surprise, a single blade rose and pierced the air, soon followed by another until rows of weapons were held aloft, their tips gleaming like teeth.

"Down with the Ice Nation," a voice let out, and the mantra was soon repeated by someone else, circling through the throng until even Bellamy and the others recited it, all eyes still fixed on her.

A surge of triumph coursed through Clarke and she raised her chin. "Down with the Ice Nation."


	11. Right To Bear Arms

**Okay, now I hope people feel some Bellarke feels in this chapter, cuz...Well...that was my intention. I try to get a minimum of 2K words per chapter and, so far, have remained consistent with that (I love consistency, which includes consistent inconsistency or the other way around as both are applicable). I'll stop babbling now.** **Here is the next chapter!**

"There's something else we need to address," Clarke murmured to Indra in the privacy of the council room. This time, Bellamy and the others were present. Clarke wouldn't have them excluded from this anymore and though she understood the relationship between Lincoln and Indra was rancorous, she needed as much help as she could get.

Indra looked at her suspiciously. "And what would that be?"

"You won't win this war with bows and spears," Clarke said. "You'll need guns."

Indra's gaze turned fiery. "That is not how we fight," she growled but Clarke had already anticipated this. "I understand it's not your custom, but it's the only chance you have. I'm sure you know by now the Ice Nation is armed and just because of that, they were able to cut down a village of hundreds within the hour."

Clarke's mind flashed back to the Boat People, at the plenitude of gunfire cracking in the night.

"Consider this a peace offering," she added. "Because the last thing I would do if I planned to hurt your people, was to arm them with automatic weapons."

"We don't know how to use your weapons," Indra barked, her tone splintering.

"You aim and you fire," Bellamy said stolidly. "Easy enough."

"We'll train you," Clarke offered. "I will. You can't beat gunfire with arrows. I said war was compromise, and this is one of them."

Indra glowered at her, but Clarke knew she saw the undertone of truth. She didn't want to, but she did.

"For this war," she finally consented. "And only this one."

"I only think in terms of one war at a time."

Indra smirked. "And so long as we're discussing the final details, I have yet to ask if you've chosen your Second."

Clarke blanked, giving her a questioning look. "Second in command?" she clarified. "Isn't that you?"

For the first time, Indra showed emotion, something that fell between incredulity and disgust. "I am the Chief of Tondc and the Commander's appointed Second. But I am not yours, as you'd want someone you believe you can trust. And I don't think either of us feel so inclined to compromise on that front."

Clarke couldn't deny that and didn't bother trying. Instead, she tried to think of someone that matched Indra's words and her eyes fell instinctively to Bellamy.

As if he'd heard her, he stepped forward. "Pick me, Clarke," he said, brown eyes meeting hers.

But she shook her head, chastising herself for making him feel compelled to volunteer. "No," she replied firmly. "You're the leader of Kane's guard. And that's where you need to stay."

He let out a scoff and took another step forward. "Matthews can fill my spot. He's orderly and people listen to him-"

"Not as well as they listen to you," Clarke intercepted. "And to win this, they have to have the best."

"You need someone to help train these people," he argued. "Someone who knows what they're doing. And for that, _I_ am your best choice."

Clarke started to shake her head again, but Bellamy took a few more steps, until he stood just in front of her. "We know how the other one of us works, Clarke," he said, a sureness reflecting in his voice. "We know our weak spots, and our strengths. And you also know that we're stronger together. It's how we've always been."

Clarke didn't look away from his eyes, willing a viable argument into existence, but there wasn't one. When they'd landed here, Bellamy had seemed like a liability. Someone who she'd been less than fond of, who had pissed her off and made decisions she hadn't agreed with at the time. But like her, he was different now, and he wasn't a liability anymore; he was a necessity, and so much more that words failed to do justice. There was no one else on the ground she knew of that compared in terms of their mutual trust. And just as he'd said, they understood each other, in many ways no one else could.

Bellamy kept his gaze locked on hers. "What do you say, Princess?"

Clarke felt the corner of her lip pull up at the reminder. "Are you sure?" she asked, still wanting to give him a chance to decline, but already knowing it was futile.

He readjusted the gun strap over his shoulder. "Please. Like I'd let you have all the fun by yourself."

* * *

"These weapons are not a toy! They are not for entertainment. Do not point them at anyone without the intention of killing them," shouted Bellamy, holding an AK -47 out to demonstrate.

Kane had agreed to lend some of the firearms to the grounders with much hesitancy that Bellamy had first taken as an outright refusal, but Clarke was able to convince him of its importance, of which he eventually agreed to it.

And that left Bellamy standing in front of a long row of young grounders, taking turns practicing with the guns as Tyrell translated his instructions. He didn't want to admit it, but it had crossed his mind that one of these men could very easily shoot him-and that he was teaching them how to do so with precise accuracy.

But Clarke, who stood by his side, looked unconcerned.

"Do you think we'll have enough time to make them decent?" He asked her, watching the men skeptically.

Clarke smirked. "We don't have much of a choice. The Ice Nation will come whether we're ready or not."

Bellamy took an irritable breath. "Sometimes a little warning would be nice," he murmured. "Then it at least makes it fair game for everyone before we slaughter each other."

"I don't think there's such a thing as moral war, Bellamy," she remarked.

"No," he agreed. "There's not." He turned his attention back to the grounders, with Tyrell translating. "Remember the three rules! Gun pointed down, safety on, finger out of the trigger guard! If you break one of these, maybe at worst, you shoot yourselves in the foot. It's when you break all three that someone dies!"

"This is not our way!" Someone shouted, but it didn't come from the group Bellamy was training. It came from his left, spoken by an older man who's face was withered, his aged skin permanently carved into a scowl.

He approached quickly, snatching one of the guns from the boys and Bellamy automatically stepped forward, shielding Clarke behind him.

The man held the gun aloft. "We do not use these weapons!"

Clarke eased from around Bellamy, her voice steady but gentle. "You have to learn. That's why we're training them."

The man sneered at her. "It is not our way!" He repeated. "Our people have endured nearly a century of this world, and we did so with our weapons, not yours."

She kept her eyes on him and took a step forward.

"Clarke..." Bellamy warned.

She didn't listen. "I'll make you a deal," she said, ignoring the other eyes that had stopped to watch the feud. "In this war, you can use your weapons. Bow or blade. And if you make it out alive, I'll forget the guns. Your people will never use them again." She took another step forward, keeping her gaze on him. "But if you don't...Well, you no longer have much say in the matter."

The man's eyes stayed on hers for a minute, his gaze turning into a glower, until Bellamy was about to intercede.

But he only dropped the weapon and some of the grounders flinched as it hit the dirt, waiting for it to go off. It didn't.

Then with one final contemptuous look at Clarke, the man just turned and shuffled away.

Bellamy crouched down and retrieved the discarded weapon. He knew the likelihood of it accidentally firing was miniscule, but he still held it up to reveal the safety switch. "And that," he called to the grounders, "is why you follow the three rules."

They trained for the rest of the day, until the sun had moved to the west and hung precariously over the mountaintops. Bellamy had spent the first half of the time discussing the workings of the guns and the remaining to walk them through firing. They used the ammunition sparingly, and he permitted only a few rounds per person.

It took them time to grow accustomed to the kickback but for a people that had never used firearms before, their aim could've been worse. And they didn't stop until the shadows had been thrown over the targets and Bellemy collected the guns, storing them in the lock room. Clarke had said to pick this up again at dawn the following morning, which was exactly what they did.

When dawn broke, Bellamy used a knife to carve targets into trees beyond the borders of Tondc, until eventually he hoped to get some motion practice in. Again, the grounders' aim was decent, and he caught a few of their pleased smiles.

The hostility he'd been surrounded by upon coming here seemed to slowly drain away. As they became more prepared, the doubt seemed to ebb away, replaced by their mounting confidence.

Clarke trained with him most of the time, but when she wasn't, she was devising a strategy with some of the others, and filled him in afterwards. To his surprise, Bellamy found it easy to fit into the role of being Clarke's second. It wasn't much different than when they'd been partners and they still were. When Clarke questioned a part in their strategy and battle tactics, she came to him and that offered some semblance of normalcy among the drastic change.

Beyond that, though, little was being done. Octavia and him still hadn't smoothed over their conflict and as time passed, Bellamy became aware of that weight. He loved his sister, and no amount of stupid decisions would change that, But her carelessness had made him question her, not just regarding the faith she had in him, but exactly where her allegiance rested. Maybe it had been his fault. Perhaps at Camp Jaha, he'd been too invested in his work and had messed up as an older brother. But Octavia was not the little girl he kept a secret anymore. She was grown, with her own mind and heart and he couldn't continue to keep taking responsibility for it. What she decided was now up to her and her alone.

"If we're pushed back, Mount Weather will be our last defense resort," Clarke told him. A week had nearly passed since he'd began training and though he was exhausted, he was also kept alert, by the growing threat fast approaching. He'd just finished training for the day but wouldn't dismiss himself until Clarke filled in the gaps and were once again in the council room, The crude map placed before them.

"Raven and Wic have already starting building the mines. And they'll plant those here," Clarke motioned to an area about half a mile from the base of Mount Weather.

Bellamy stared at it. "How many?"

"As many as they can make."

"What about bombs?"

"She's working on making grenades," Clarke replied. "But we don't have any excess gun powder, so either we lose a few guns or we can't have the grenades."

Bellamy deliberated over that, finding it difficult to think in his weary state. "Which do you think will be able to take out more?"

Clarke crossed her arms, still eyeing the map. "I think the grenades will offer the advantage of surprise that the guns will lose after the first round."

He nodded. "Then the guns."

"That's what I thought."

A silence fell over them and Clarke turned her focus to his face, probably noting the dark circles under his eyes. "Bellamy, have you slept at all?" she asked, her authoritative voice she'd just worn switching to one of suspicion.

He shrugged. "I'm fine."

"You look tired."

"We're all tired," he countered. "This is a war, Clarke. I'll sleep when it's over. Or if I'm dead. Then I'll have plenty of time to catch up on missed sleep." He could tell from her expression she didn't appreciate the poor attempt at humor and the air around them suddenly became serious.

"If anyone's going to make it out of this alive, it's you, Bellamy," she said.

He swallowed his scoff. "And what about you? I mean if you haven't noticed, you kind of have a habit of staying alive."

Clarke sighed. "Habits can be broken." Her gaze studied his. "Look, Bellamy, if this doesn't-"

He cut her off eith a wave of his hand. "Don't go there, Clarke," he said, his tone almost harsh. "We'll beat these guys, okay? We will show them what it's like to be afraid. Some of us will die, but you can be certain that those of us that do will go out fighting."

She grimaced. "'Do not go gentle into that good night,'" Clarke whispered. "'Rage against the dying of the light.'"

Her eyes flickered to him. "That's a poem by Dylan Thomas."

Bellamy looked at her dubiously."I know who Dylan Thomas is, Clarke."

She smiled. "Right. You should get some rest," she said, breaking eye contact and returning it to the map.

"Is that an order?"

She shook her head. "Consider it a strong suggestion."

It was his turn to smile. "You know, this suits you," he added absentmindendly as he headed for the door. At the curious look she shot him, he clarified. "Leading people. I know you didn't want it, but they have faith in you, Clarke. We all do."

He saw the appreciation ignite in her eyes and she smiled again.

He returned it and for just a second, it was as if the world disappeared, replacing it for another where there was no war waiting for them; no shadow of death leering over their people. For this one moment, they were just two people, yet to be tainted by blood and battle.

But then the image dissolved and the world fell back, in one where war brewed, and where death was undeniably near.

* * *

 _"Your sister, your responsibility."_

 _Bellamy opened his eyes, expecting to see the familiar ceiling of his tent. Smell the familiar tang of earth and wood. But the ceiling was hard, and the only thing he could smell was something coppery and electric. He gazed around him, and found he was in a room, alive and humming with computer screens._

 _Fear unfurled inside him and he stared at the black screens, lights and buttons flashing beside them. A thrumming sounded, and one of the monitor screens flickered on, dousing the dim room in a white, artificial light._ _At first, he didn't know what it was, but then faces came into view. Ten, twenty, dozens of people appeared on the screen. The hum grew louder until it was almost ringing but he dismissed it. He watched as another one turned on, and soon, another after it, until the entire wall of screens held similar images in their faces._

 _"What..." he started, staring at them confusedly. "What is this?"_

 _When he spoke, the pictures changed, switching from kind faces to those he recognized, to his sister, lowering herself to the floor._

 _"I promise," Bellamy heard his own voice say, but it was distinctly younger and boyish and hard to hear over the ringing. "I'll protect you."_

 _He turned his eyes to a lever at his right, and panic settled in him but he swallowed it back._

 _"Your sister, your responsibility."_

 _He already knew what that lever did. And what he was going to decide. Knew it as well as he knew the small quarters on the Ark, and the floorboards that contained a little girl beneath it._

 _He approached the lever slowly and the ringing seemed to grow deafeningly loud as he lifted a trembling hand. Bellamy wrapped his fingers around the handle, gripping it so tightly that the blood fled and his skin turned white._

 _He knew exactly how this would go, as he'd done it before, had lived it once and did so again and again in his dreams. But there were differences between the two. In reality, someone had helped him pull the lever._

 _Here, he had to do it alone._

 _"My sister," he recited. "My responsibility."_

 _And then he plunged it down._

The ringing woke Bellamy with a start and he sat up, expecting the sound to fade with the nightmare.

But it didn't.

In his disorientation, it took him a moment to comprehend the incessant chimes. And when sudden understanding dawned on him, it was instantly accompanied by a coldness that shot through his body, freezing him to the spot for a single heart beat.

Those were the alarms. And they had been sounded.


	12. Stratagem

**I love you guys. I seriously did not expect this reaction, I'm so touched. So thank you! And I'm sorry I have the tendency to end every chapter in a cliffhanger-misplaced anger from all the books I've read and shows I've watched. Indirect revenge, you can call it. (And sorry in advance, because I will probably keep doing it.)**

Tondc was already swarming to life when Clarke came from the council room, shouts clashing with the alarms that continued to pierce the air. Orders were given in fragments, but whether they'd heard or not, some men were racing to the lock room.

Clarke's heart slammed against her ribcage as she went against the tidal wave of grounders and to the borders of the village. Indra had been the first to arrive, shouting out directives around her.

"What's happening?" Clarke yelled over the roar of alarms and panicked civilians.

Indra barked something in Trianesleng. "Ice scouts were spotted," she said across to her.

Clarke stiffened. This wasn't supposed to happen yet; not so soon after the Boat People. The Ice Nation should have needed time to plan, to coordinate. The fact that they'd already arranged a strategy instilled fear in her, trickling down her spine like cold water, but she masked her apprehension."Have they made a move?"

"Not-"

Fire suddenly leapt up from one of the roofs, a lone flame that grew instantaneously. Then more flames appeared, tendrils bursting in small clusters.

"Fire arrows," Clarke murmured. "They're trying to draw everyone out!"

"Clarke!" Bellamy's voice cut through the chaos and she turned to the direction it had came from, just when he appeared before her. His eyes were wide and glazed but Clarke didn't allow herself to focus on him. "Arm the grounders," she told him. "I want guards stationed around the perimeter."

Before she had even finished talking, Bellamy was already following her orders.

"Tyrell!" Clarke looked over at the older man. "Do not spare any stronger grounders, but get these fires put out!"

He simply nodded before disappearing into the pandemonium.

Clarke's breathing turned shallow as she surveyed the mayhem; the people running to put out the fires; the arrows that continued to fall like stars out of the sky; the screams coming from the children.

"Indra," Clarke looked at the grounderchief. "Get all the children to a safe house. Someplace that won't burn."

Indra looked like she wanted to argue, but she did as Clarke ordered.

"Get those fires put out!" Clarke shouted again, seeing as more flames sprung from the roofs. She searched the area, squinting through the wafting smoke tht snaked through the air.

"Clarke!" Octavia appeared through the haze, breathing heavily and choking on smoke.

"Where's Lincoln?" Clarke asked.

Octavia motioned behind her. "He's over-"

Clarke started in the direction, faltering as more fire caught her attention, patches of light dancing over the rooftops. She felt more fear settle in her gut as she calculated the damage being done. So far, no lives had been taken from their sides, but it was little consolation. It was only a matter of time.

"Lincoln!"

There was a crack that sounded in the distance, like a clap of thunder. A moment passed and then the noise seemed to shatter, into a million pieces that rained around the village.

Clarke dropped to her knees and covered her head as the gunfire began, but she couldn't tell where it was coming from-the grounders or the Ice Nation. She crawled on her hands and knees to one of the homes, the stone foundation offering more safety than ones assembled from thatchwork. Smoke made its way into her nose and burned like acid and she gagged. She scrambled to her feet, and pressed her back to the cold stone.

She tried to map out the points of conflict in her head; the gunfire was coming from the east, and Clarke tried to devise some sort of plan from that, but the sheets of flailing bullets, fire, and choking smoke was making it difficult to concentrate.

She grabbed at the nearest grounder she could, a young man not much older than her. She didn't care who he was or what position he had. As long as he knew how to run.

"I want more guards on the east side!" She told him. "But no guard leaves their post! The Ice Nation could be using this as a distraction to come around the west!"

The man stood there ,dumbfounded, for a moment.

"Move!" She shouted and he sprang into action, running where she'd told him to and kicking up dirt in his wake.

Clarke transferred her focus to their other current issue. A well stood nearby, partially hidden by the few grounders retrieving water to put out the fire. But it wasn't enough.

She pushed her way through and took a pail from a boy. One look at him, and she knew he was too young.

Clarke stopped another grounder before he could reach the well. "Get him to the safe house!" Clarke ordered and he seemed to understand her as she thrust the boy at him. He nodded and steered the child away.

Clarke dipped the pail into the water and ran to the nearest home. She hefted up the bucket and tossed it over the largest flame she saw. It sputtered and choked but bounded back to life and she returned to the well.

"We need more people over here!" She bellowed, plunging the pail over the lip of the cover.

"Its a war zone!" Someone shouted back and Clarke turned to an older woman who'd spoken. Clarke's voice came out an order. "If the village burns, we lose shelter. And supplies. Which makes us a target." She handed off the pail and pointed its bearer to the flames.

Then Clarke left the well behind, still ducking at the sounds of gunfire. She approached the nearest grounders that weren't Warriors, dismissing their fearful expressions. "Go to the well!" She shouted, but at their confused, terror-stricken eyes, she stopped as the realization hit her.

They didn't understand. The only ones who spoke English were those who she already had on the front lines. She wracked her memory for the Trikru word that meant water. "Uh, aq...aquay?" she tried.

That wasn't it.

"A-agua?" She shook her head in desperation. But then someone caught her eye and she forced her way over, skirting around those trample-potential, led by panic and fear. "Lincoln!"

His head jerked in her direction, and he headed for her. They were nearing the center of the village and Clarke was almost there when she stumbled over something And tripped. She hit the ground hard, rocks digging into her palms and she looked down.

She came face to face with a fallen grounder, his dark glassy eyes gazing up at her.

The woman had been right. It was a war zone. And the broken man before Clarke told her what she'd feared. That bullets were coming this way, which meant that the Ice Nation was closing in, and the first life in this war had been taken.

Lincoln grabbed her arm and pulled her up. "I can't find Octavia!" He shouted over the roar of gunfire.

Clarke forgot the dead man at her feet. "She's fine!" Or was, when she'd last seen her. "Lincoln, I need you to tell people to put out the fires! The smoke offers coverage but also for the Ice scouts or whatever it is they have coming!"

He must have agreed because he gave her a curt nod. He started from the grounder closest to him, speaking something in triangeslang.

"And make sure the safe house is secure!" Clarke added, before turning her back to them. She hit the ground again when more bullets came, but stood back up as quickly as she could, across the heart of the village and to the east side.

But a hot burst of pain made her stumble and her knee crumpled.

She gasped at the agony that licked around her thigh like fire, but forced herself to rise. Her leg shook unsteadily as she moved and she saw the stain of red blooming over the fabric.

Flesh wound. grazed.

Clarke willed her feet to move faster, shrugging off the lance of pain that came with each footfall. More bullets richocheted but Clarke focused on the east side, not stopping until she made it.

She wove through the stationed guards, guns pointed outward and firing a round of bullets, brass littering the ground around her. She didn't stop until she heard Bellamy, shouting out commands to the guards.

Clarke stopped beside him. "Any change?" she asked.

He glanced across at her. "They don't seem to be expanding their attack," he reported. "I don't like it."

"Think it's a diversion?"

Bellamy cocked his gun. "That's exactly what I think. I'm going around to check the perimeter."

"I already have guards stationed there. But I need updates. I'm coming with you."

Bellamy knew better than to argue-understood he had no right to, and pulled off one of his firearms. He held it out to her and she took it firmly in her hands.

"Shoot on sight!" he told the guards and began speedwalking away from them, stopping as more gunfire was unleashed. Clarke followed suit, shoving her back into the mossy stone of the entryway. Bellamy gazed around them, scrutinizing the damage the same way she had done.

"Those fires aren't helping," He snapped.

"Lincoln's rounding up some people to help put them out," Clarke said. "I sent Indra to collect all the children and put them in a safe house."

Bellamy looked at her. "Good. I have Scouts stationed at every corner. But I want to make sure they aren't coming around back."

Clarke nodded approvingly, grimacing as more pain erupted from her wound. She was aware of Bellamy's sudden gaze, reading her expression before falling to her leg.

"You're hurt," he stated, and she heard the disapproval in his voice. But Clarke just met his eyes. "It's fine," she bit out. And it was. If she wasn't on the floor being steadily drained of blood, than this was nothing.

Bellamy looked at her skeptically. "That'll slow you down."

"It won't."

Clarke knew he wanted to object, but he must have realized the vanity of it, and raised his gun. "Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

Bellamy turned away from her swiftly and walked quickly, his steps lithe and careful among the bedlam. When distant gunfire sounded to their right, they both ducked, but Bellamy didn't fire any rounds. "The last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves," he explained, but Clarke had assumed as much already.

She gripped her hand around her own weapon as they continued. He stopped at the statue, the carved face glaring down at them impassively. Its stony eyes watched them as they passed, until they were standing in the mouth of the opening.

"We'll have to climb over," Bellamy said, shouldering his weapon. "They'll be watching the doors like a hawk. Over here." He motioned to an area slick with stone but easy enough to scale. It wasn't far and seemed easy enough.

He looked at her once. "I don't suppose there's any good in telling you not to do this."

Clarke gazed back at him. "You go up first," she said, jerking her chin towards it.

He didn't look away from her for a single beat.

"That's what I thought," he muttered as he clambered up the stone surface, reaching a hand down to help her up. She used purchases to hold herself to the stone and Bellamy kept ahead, assisting her where he could. Her leg throbbed, but Clarke shoved the feeling away, until they'd reached the top of it. A drop fell below them but Bellamy wasted no time. He pitched himself over and Clarke heard his soft landing.

Clarke allowed herself a small breath and nothing more as she dropped, too, the air whistling by her before the impact came.

Heat laced up her leg and she bit her lip, but stayed upright.

Bellamy pulled off his gun and held it aloft again, keeping it trailed on the trees. "You okay?" he asked, keeping his eyes where the barrel of the gun was on.

Clarke didn't bother answering. She just unshouldered her own gun and started walking, sidestepping large knots of roots and anything else that could cause much noise. She was almost tempted to split up, but thought better of it. They had no way of signaling each other and could do more harm than good.

The farther they trekked, the more on edge Clarke became, but she kept her hands steady. Shouts and gunfire still blasted around them, but it was no longer aimed in their direction. The only thing surrounding them were the trees, and somewhere beneath their branches, Ice Scouts.

It was possible they'd already been seen, but no move had been made. Besides the distant gunfire, the woods remained undisturbed where they were.

"I don't like this," Clarke echoed his earlier words, keeping her eyes on the trees' silhouette. It was too untouched. Too still.

She took Bellamy's silence as agreement. Instead of replying, he stepped around her cautiously, taking the lead.

"You don't have to do that," she told him, voice barely above a whisper.

Neither of them removed their eyes from the trees. "I'm your Second, Clarke," he replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "That means I'm the one that's supposed to take the risks."

Clarke shook her head slightly, but didn't reply, eyeing every shadow with contempt. Instinct screamed at her to pull the trigger, to make herself known to whatever threat stayed hidden in the darkness, but she didn't. She kept going in silence, until a twig snapped and she froze.

In front of her, Bellamy lifted a hand, gesturing for her to stay still and quiet.

Clarke complied without question, but took another step forward, until she stood beside him. She squinted to see through the darkness, and then she saw it.

Two men, clothed in gear too dark it blended with the night. The only reason she'd noticed them at all was the way their outlines didn't math the woods behind them. "Is there more?" she asked him, the words carried to him on her breath.

Bellamy gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "What are they waiting for?"

It wasn't hard to guess. "A signal."

As if her words had reaped it themselves, a flaming arrow fell from above, and dug its tip into the ground in front of the men. They instantly stood, but so quietly, so catlike, it was as if they'd dawned shadows and disappeared into them.

"We need to call for the guards," Bellamy whispered, but Clarke was already shaking her head. "We can't make it back in time." She didn't want to give them an opportunity to flee and raised her gun.

Bellamy clamped his hand around the weapon's forearm and lowered it to the ground. "Not yet," he said, his eyes boring into hers. "We'll fire on my count, all right? And remember to stay quiet. Whatever happens."

Determination furrowed his brows and Clarke looked back at him as she eased her finger from the trigger guard. "Okay," she said.

"One," Bellamy started, taking a step closer to her.

"Two," he broke their gaze and turned It fully on the men before him.

Before he got to three, Clarke felt something grip her arm and she looked across at it, just long enough to see his fingers wrapped around there. An alarm went off in her mind and a second later, she was pulled back.

The force knocked her off her feet and her back smacked against the ground. Pain scoured up her tendon and she tied to breathe but the breath had been knocked from her lungs. Her nails dugs into the ground until it returned and she pulled her head up, just enough to catch the familiar figure of Bellamy before he released a shower of bullets at the men.

But the Ice scouts didn't fall. They just disappeared again, smoothly and without trouble as if they'd been expecting them.

A coldness settled over Clarke and she scrambled for her gun that had been tossed like the air from her chest. Her fingers grasped around nozzle, and she lifted it. She froze when a gunshot sounded, instantly followed by a cry of pain. It penetrated the air and she stared, almost transfixed by the sight of Bellamy, as he collapsed to one leg.

Clarke pointed the weapon again.

But he was suddenly blocked from her vision, by a pair of darkly-clad men. And helplessness expanded over Clarke as she saw it wasn't just the two men they'd spotted, but more. Many more. They stepped from behind trees, appeared from beneath brush and she felt as if the air had been knocked from her again.

This hadn't been their trap.

It had been the Ice Nation's.

Clarke took aim once more, but was finding it difficult to make Bellamy out from the rest. She still tried, though, aware as her breath spurted from her in quick gasps and panic settled over her, blanketing her in a relentless cold. She wanted to fire, to mow down every one of those men, because Clarke was all-too familiar with what the Ice Scouts would do next.

They would either kill him, or take him to inflict things far worse than death.

But Clarke also knew she couldn't take on a dozen men alone and she grasped at any possibility. Any chance.

 _"I'm the one that's supposed to take the risks."_

No, she thought. _Not this time. Not him._

 _Do something,_ her mind screamed and she tried. But to fire would mean to put his life in even greater danger. And to step in and stop it, was to put all the grounders' lives in the same position.

Clarke felt her vision blur and it was suddenly like she was reliving that day on the drop ship, catching the last glimpse of him and Finn before leaving them to burn beyond their door.

No, there had to be something. Anything, but Clarke knew it better than anyone. It's why Bellamy had pushed her down. It was why he'd taken the risk and refused to let her partake in it beside him.

" _Stay quiet. Whatever happens."_

She distantly noted that the gunfire had ceased, but Clarke didn't lower her own weapon, well aware she couldn't fire it. But then Bellamy's gasp of pain made its way to her again and her concern was lost.

 _Just one,_ she reconsidered, and pulled the trigger.

It stayed true to its mark, punching through the chest of the man she'd aimed it at.

 _"I can't lose you, too,"_ she heard her own voice chime.

But instead of making the Ice Scouts stop, it spurred them on. And Clarke watched in utter powerlessness as they disappeared back into the shadows, with Bellamy at the heart of them.


	13. Weakness

**I truly believe that this next sequence of events is accurate. As in, I hope Clarke stays in character.**

Bellamy felt droplets of cold water sting his cheeks, and his eyes cracked open, blinking away a few drops that caught in them. He looked up, his vision bleary in the dull morning light. That or it could've been the loss of blood he'd suffered. He couldn't even remember when he'd passed out, or if they'd made him. But the lack of any head trauma told him it wasn't by force.

Bellamy tried to move his leg, and looked down to survey the damage, but to his surprise, it was bandaged, wrapped tightly in what he presumed to be herbs like Clarke had used on his shoulder.

Clarke.

Bellamy tried to think back through the fog clouding his mind. He simultaneously looked around him, taking in the patches of trees but it was overcast in a lifeless grey, washed out from the clouds that sprinkled rain above. There was little indication of there being a camp, other than the couple horses whinnying nearby, tied off to a fallen trunk. No sign of Clarke. No sign of place was desolate, devoid of any other humans, Grounders or Ice Scouts alike.

As to be expected, His gun had been taken, undoubtedly added to their firearm inventory.

Great.

Though his hands were shackled, he was able to move his fingers and touched his wound gingerly. It stung, but it wasn't unbearable. Someone had given him proper medical attention, or what he considered their equivalent to it and that knowledge made his blood run a few degrees colder. Because there was no reason to ease his discomfort, if only it was to make him last longer.

 _"You thought the Mountain Men were cruel,"_ Clarke's words came to him, unbidden. _"The Ice Nation will make an example out of you."_

Bellamy took a steady breath, feeling the air chill around him. They were heading higher into the mountains and he had little idea as to how far they'd already come. How long had he been out? A day? A week? Possibly more?

Footfalls suddenly sounded behind him and his thoughts evaporated. Bellamy looked around for something to protect himself with, but his hands were shackled too tightly to offer much help. He knew, at least, that they didn't plan to kill him yet.

But that was just as much a concern as it was a relief.

The footfall grew closer until they were directly behind him. Bellamy's breath stilled as the stranger stepped around, heavy-heeled boots being the first thing that came into his view. He hadn't known what the Ice Scouts would look like, but what he'd conjured no longer mattered. The man next to him seemed to stand unusually tall, and Bellamy didn't miss the gleaming seax blade tucked in his strap. A cloak settled over his shoulders, the hood casting his face into a pit of shadow.

The man pulled it back, and again, Bellamy expected something he didn't get.

A mask covered the man's face, allowing only his eyes through, dark and cold like the heart of his leader.

Bellamy stared into them, rearranging his face to appeared nonchalant. Inside, he was apprehensive, but he wasn't about to give this man-this creature-the satisfaction of seeing that.

More footsteps sounded and another person in similar gear appeared, and Bellamy counted six in all. He recalled there having been more men, but assumed half their team must've already continued ahead of them. Maybe they were just scouting the area. Neither of those options made him feel anymore comforted. But these men were still men. They still bed red and died just as easily as the rest of them.

"Ready the horses," The first one spoke in English, but the way he said the words sounded almost guttural.

Bellamy didn't look away from his piercing eyes. "Were you the one that hurt my friend?" He asked before he knew what he was doing. Sudden anger boiled inside him at the sight of this man, with that blade tucked beneath his belt.

That's what had cut Clarke.

That's what would probably cut him too.

Bellamy knew he was in no position to make threats, but that was also a position in which he had little else to lose. "Your men will pay for that," he said, his voice deathly cold. "They'll pay for hurting her, and for the Boat People you slaughtered. At night while they slept. Like a coward."

The man stilled. Then in a swift motion, his fingers clutched the neck of his shirt and he pulled Bellamy up, bringing him much closer to those eyes, horribly empty and flat.

"You'll be begging me for death by the time I'm through with you, Boy," he sneered in a voice carved from anything human.

Bellamy didn't take the bait. "Not likely," he snapped.

The man released him, and he fell hard on the ground. Pain burst from his wound, but he made no action to show it.

The Ice Scout kept his gaze on him for a moment longer, and Bellamy could practically see the smile from underneath his mask.

"That's just what your friend said."

* * *

Clarke didn't even spare herself a minute before she was already devising some plan. As soon as the Ice scouts had gone, Clarke was back in the village, her wound having long since gone numb. Her mind seemed to suffer a similar effect, all except for the guilt that had managed to bleed through.

But Clarke wasn't going to go back to how she'd been. She wasn't going to fill herself with the blame. It did no one any good. This time she would act, and maybe she would do a few things differently, because unlike the many times before, she wouldn't leave Bellamy behind again.

As she reentered the village, Clarke noted the fires had been put out and had been updated that the death count was around twelve, a smaller number than she'd expected.

Halfway across the field, Indra appeared at her side. "All children have been accounted for," she said.

Clarke's voice turned cold, deadened like those killed last night. "Good. Any Warriors among them?"

"Only one."

Clarke nodded. That at least meant the others were alive. "Council Room," she ordered and she left no opening in her tone for Indra to question.

They'd just reached the inside of it when Octavia came through, tailed by Lincoln. Clarke didn't offer them much of a glance, pulling the map to her along with an ink quill. She used it to trace the route from Tondc to the Ice Nation, placing X's every interval for each day that it would take to reach it.

"Where's Bellamy?" Octavia said, And her words bit into Clarke as if she'd physically slapped her.

She didn't answer. "Twelve lost. Along with ammunition. We need supplies from Mount Weather. I want someone sent immediately," she told Indra.

"Clarke," Octavia repeated, worry leaking into her tone. "where's my brother?"

"We were ambushed," Clarke replied in an apathetic voice, struggling to get the next words out. "Ice scouts took him."

A silence filtered around the room.

"They took him?" She asked, as if unable to comprehend her.

Clarke finally met her gaze."Yes."

"But..." Octavia sucked in a breath. "You said they tortured people. That they...that they...is that what they're going to do to him?"

Clarke suppressed the images that threatened to overwhelm her. "Bellamy won't be used to for leverage," she told her. "Last night's attack hadn't been an attack. It was a distraction, to lure people out. Specifically Someone with intel. Which means they'll keep him alive. Possibly for weeks."

"Keep him alive?" Octavia bit out, her voice shaking under the implication. "What? What does that mean? _Tell_ me what they're going to do."

"I don't know, Octavia!" Clarke shouted back. "I know the methods of torture they used on me. But it wasn't to extract information, it was punishment."

Octavia passed the back of her hand over her neck. "So? Does that make it better or worse than what they did to you?"

Clarke was barely holding it together at the seam, but she would not break."I was there from four months," she said. "I'm not sure him being in a better condition than me is any consolation to you."

"How?" Octavia spat. "How did this happen? Bellamy wouldve seen a trap."

"It was my fault," Clarke took on, allowing the words to settle on her shoulders. "He was protecting me."

It was the wrong thing to say.

A hand landed on her and Clarke twisted around. She met Octavia's eyes, anger and fear sparking in their irises. "So let me get this straight, " she said, her voice frighteningly calm. "My brother risks his life for you again, and you just left him...again."

The words stung but she wasn't exactly wrong. "I was up against a dozen Scouts," Clarke told her. "And killing myself wouldn't have helped him in any way."

"It would've at least shown you put up a fight," Octavia shot back. "Rather than just letting them have him willingly."

Indra yanked Octavia away, wielding a short blade in front of her.

She didn't seem to notice it, not moving her eyes from Clarke's.

"I put us in a vulnerable position," Clarke admitted. "And I take responsibility for that."

Octavia looked at her in disgust."Well it's good to know your conscience is clear."

Clarke's hands quaked and she wanted to shout. To yell. To do _something._ But she simply turned to Indra. "Who's your best tracker?"

Indra scrutinized her warily. "Tyrell."

"Get him here. Now."

Indra paused. "Cla-"

Clarke turned her gaze on Indra. "Now."

She complied and left the room, leaving Clarke with Octavia and Lincoln, who still hadn't said anything. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her feelings in check. Clarke needed to think. Anger would only cloud her judgment and she had to be as clear-headed as possible if this was going to work.

"What do you need a tracker for?" Octavia asked.

"You were right," Clarke said bluntly. "I have left him behind. At the drop ship. In Mount Weather. Back at Camp. But I'm not doing that again."

Octavia looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You're going after him?"

Just then, Indra returned, with Tyrell at her heels. Clarke barely noticed, keeping her focus on Octavia. "Yes. Are you capable of tracking Ice Scouts?" She asked Tyrell.

His blue eyes met hers. "I've never tried. But all creatures leave their marks."

Clarke nodded in approval. "Good. Lincoln, I need you, too."

Lincoln glanced at her, and she caught a small glimmer of surprise there. "Why me?" It wasn't a complaint but a question borne of simple curiousity.

"Because you're strong," Clarke replied. "You're capable and frankly, you're the only Grounder in this compound I'm prepared to trust my life with."

If her answer had caught him off-guard, he didn't show it, and nodded.

Clarke knew what would happen next, and as if on cue, Octavia stepped in. "I'm coming, too."

Clarke shook her head. She wouldn't have both of their lives at stake. If she couldn't get Bellamy back, she wouldn't also get his sister killed in the process. "You can't," she told her.

"This is my brother," Octavia said, her voice trembling at her barely-contained rage. "Im going."

Clarke turned on her, feeling her own mounting anger mirror hers. "No, you're not. You aren't thinking clearly and that in the Ice Nation is liable to get you killed."

She scoffed. "I don't care, I'm saving my br-"

"I care, Octavia," Clarke snapped back. "You're too emotionally involved to be a part of this."

The revulsion returned to her features. "And you're not emotionally involved?"

"I'm the only one that's been there before," Clarke reminded her. "I know where they will be holding him. But I need you to stay here and continue training the Grounders."

Octavia nearly grabbed her again. "Screw training the Grounders, you can't keep me here-"

Clarke took a step closer, staring unflinchingly into the younger girl's eyes. This time, she welcomed the position of authority she held. "I can. If I have to lock you in a room myself, I'll do it. If I have to make guards hold you here until we return, I'll do it. Because if I don't get him back, at least I can keep you alive."

"That isn't your job," Octavia growled.

Clarke looked at her, unfazed. "Its my job to ensure the safety of the Grounders and my people, including Bellamy. And you coming jeopardizes that. This isn't Mount Weather, Octavia. This is the Ice Nation. We don't have room for one mistake so if you want to give your brother the best chance of making it out, and alive, I. Need you. Here."

Maybe Octavias understood. Or maybe she fell silent to plan something, but Clarke returned her attention to the map.

Unfortunately, though, Indra had her own argument to pose. "This is not wise," she said. "You are risking my people to save one man."

"I will not leave him there," Clarke answered automatically.

"That is your weakness," Indra sneered at her.

She felt her anger morph into rage. Into something forged from fire. Clarke had become very familiar with what was weakness. Guilt. Blame. Torment. Those were a weakness. Allowing fault to render you incapable was a weakness.

But love was something else. It's what had given Clarke the strength to protect her people.

Had given her the heart to stand up and accept the responsibility for another's'.

It's what had given courage to a girl to kill a boy she loved.

"I've tried the cold hearted route, Indra," Clarke said. "I've tried your belief that love is weakness. And it didn't work. So now it's time for me to do what I believe is right."

Indra came very close, the anger emanating off her in waves. "You are risking this war."

"I'm saving my friend, and someone vital to _this war_."

The older woman glowered at her. "Your compassion makes you vulnerable," she jeered. "And it _is_ a weakness."

"Compassion isn't what makes you weak," Clarke told her. "It's what makes you human. You use your hatred and your fury to fight your battles don't you?" She asked, staring into Indra's eyes. "But what happens when that anger burns itself up? What happens when it goes dry? Because it will. And once it does, you'll have nothing left. But love doesn't burn out. It only grows stronger, even if those you care for are taken from you because _you_ are still here and you want to make their loss matter in this war. In every war. And without that, Indra, you have nothing worth fighting for."

"I fight for my people!"

Clarke nodded. "Because you care about them, don't you? That's not weakness, Indra. That's purpose. You said that if I did anything to jeopardize them, you'd rather be without a leader. Well, I am going after Bellamy and if you want to stop me, you'll have to make good on that promise."

For one fleeting moment, Clarke thought she would take her up on her offer. But Indra just gazed back, unblinking. "If you go to the Ice Nation, they'll do the work for me."

Clarke smirked. "And once again, we find ourselves in agreement."


	14. Departure

**Ah, I love this fanfiction. I really enjoy writing it and the response is...amazing. Now, I won't be updating everyday. I may miss a day or two because yes, I'm anxious to show you all what I write, but I need to make sure it's how I want it before sending it off into the world. So don't be discouraged if I miss a day or two. It means I'm trying to make this as good as I can. :)**

They left when the Carrier returned from Mount Weather, after the sun had settled over the hills.

Clarke didn't know for certain if Kane would grant her the items she needed with much enthusiasm, but she'd instructed the Carrier to tell him that he had to demonstrate some level of trust in both her and the grounders if he wished for this alliance to hold. She wasn't, however, willing to take any supplies that would affect the Sky people's aid in war if it came early, and Raven could spare her only two grenades and a bomb.

But It was enough. It had to be.

Clarke refused to wait until morning to leave, and regardless of the increased risk, they disbanded that evening. She'd drawn up a charcoal map of the Ice Nation's layout in the council room which was now rolled and tucked away in her satchel. Clarke kept it close to her as they passed from beneath the statue, his eyes staring accusingly in her direction.

Very little was said for the few hours available to them, and Clarke rehearsed her strategy as they went, ensuring she didn't leave any holes in the fabric of it. When night fell and they made camp, she retrieved the map, spreading it beneath the small fire they'd made. It flickered over her drawing, almost tauntingly.

She hadn't shared her strategy with either Lincoln or Tyrell prematurely, in fear of being overheard by someone in Tondc. But out here, alone and hidden by the sylvan setting, there was little chance of it getting out somehow.

She sat on her knees, and kept her voice low. "The Ice Nation has six entrances that I know of," She told them, gesturing to her drawing. "The first leads to the soldiers barracks and below that is the armory. Their quarters connects directly to the Queens chambers, which is past the second entrance."

Images sprang to her mind, of cold hallways and shady rooms, decorated in a plethora of torches that cast wicked shadows over floors.

She pushed them away. "The third entrance opens to a guard station, then underneath that is the prisoner cells and finally, the torture chambers." Clarke kept her tone even as she said, "Which is where Bellamy will be. The fourth entrance is storage and both the fifth and sixth entrances are dedicated to the accommodations and civilian chambers."

She lifted her gaze to Lincoln's. "You and Tyrell will be the ones to get Bellamy out. He's probably injured and I can't carry him with only one of you."

Lincoln met her eyes, the flames dancing in his own. "And that leaves you where?"

Clarke thrummed her finger over entry one. She'd thought this through; every detail. "I'm going to sneak into the first entrance and blow up their armory."

Uncertainty flickered across Lincoln's face, but she elaborated. "It'll be dentrimental to their war efforts and it will offer a distraction for you to reach Bellamy."

Slowly and with some small hesitance, Lincoln nodded.

Tyrell studied her drawing. "That accounts for one grenade, but what about the other one? And the bomb?" he asked.

"I'll use one to blow on the surface, to draw out the guards in order to slip through. They'll access the armory if they think there's a threat which minimizes the chances of them locking it back up, allowing me to get past without using the bomb to blow the door."

Lincoln scrutinized her closely. "Why not use the bomb to blow the armory itself?"

"Because the bomb is more powerful than the grenade. And that in a roomful of gunpowder could cause the tunnels to cave in."

He must've agreed because Lincoln dropped his eyes to the map. "So what will the bomb be used for?"

"Getting to Bellamy is only half the feat," Clarke said. "You still have to get him _out_. I'll detonate the bomb in the soldiers' barracks, to keep the attentioncentered there and hopefully take out a few of their Warriors and Scouts in the process."

Tyrell finally looked at her, his blue irises a stark contrast to Lincoln's brown ones. "And we will rejoin at what point in this?" he inquired.

Clarke kept her finger over the first entrance. "After I plant the bomb. Between that and the first grenade, it should give you enough time to get him out. But this is where I need you both to listen," he voice turned cold. "And follow my orders exactly."

Lincoln looked back up and she met both of their gazes sternly. "If that bomb goes off before we meet up, you have to leave me behind. If you make it to the surface and don't see me, you leave. Get as far away as possible. The Ice Scouts already have a day on us, which means they will have dedicated 24 hours to torturing Bellamy by the time you get to him. He'll be slow and you can't afford to wait for me."

Lincoln narrowed his eyes and though he didn't say it, Clarke felt his disapproval over the concept, but he didn't touch on it. Clarke trusted his judgment, and if he didn't see much of an alternative, especially within their limits, she was confident in her thoroughness.

"What if you don't make it back?" he asked instead.

Again, Clarke had already considered this possibility. "Then you inform Indra and Mount Weather that their armory has been blown and if Indra insists she cannot lead the Grounders to fight, that the Sky People may have a chance to win this without their help."

"This isn't a one-person job," she added, sharing a look between them. "I need you both. We only have one shot at this."

Clarke could see their understanding and a part of her ached at the prospect of putting them in this position, but it was a call she would take all accountability for.

"I have something," Tyrell said, and Clarke looked at him curiously as he pulled off his bag. He dug a hand inside it and retrieved something in a fist. He held it over the fire to be seen clearly.

"White Baneberry," Tyrell breathed, and they peered at the purple beads nestled there. Forlornness crept into Clarke's gut and she looked him in the eyes. A sadness resonated inside her, but Tyrell's expression gave away nothing.

"They're toxic, aren't they," she asked, but it wasn't really a question.

"Deadly for those that consume it." His voice grew suddenly cold. "If we're caught, we must protect our knowledge and make sure the Ice Nation gets its hands on none of it."

"Nature's cyanide pills," Clarke murmured, staring at the small plant that harbored something so deadly.

She wanted to deny the necessity of them, but she _couldn't_ deny Tyrell's reasoning. Apparently, Lincoln couldn't either and both him and Clarke extended their hands.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she said, as one was dropped into her palm.

* * *

The farther they went, the colder the air grew. The prickling chill slowly turned into a bitter wind, that stung Bellamy's skin and made his eyes water.

The Ice Scouts were relentless in their trek, stopping for no more than a few hours when evening approached, and leaving even before the sun shown from over the mountains. It was evident that that were in a hurry and that put Bellamy on edge.

His leg felt stronger and that was an advantage they had provided him; with it weak, escape would've been a greater challenge. Now, it was a much more tangible possibility.

At the first sign of improvement, they had made him walk. It helped with the cold, but worsened his discomfort. He thought the higher they got, the Ice Scouts would give him something to keep warm, but they didn't. They remained eerily silent around him, the only one to speak being the man who had delivered the threats.

Bellamy had already decided that he would be the one to take that man's life.

It was a few hours before dawn and Bellamy wrapped his arms tighter around himself, seeing his breath cling desperately to the air. "Don't you think it would be inconvenient to patch me up if you plan on just letting me die of hypothermia?" he asked when the walking no longer sufficed in helping circulate blood. Tremors shook his body and he tightened his arms until it was making it difficult to breathe.

No one bothered answering him, which he wasn't exactly surprised by. But the bitterness of the cold was making him bitter himself. No, that wasn't good enough. Bellamy wasn't bitter. He was enraged, as he stood surrounded by a band of remorseless killers. These were people who found justice in slaughtering a peaceful tribe in the dead of night. Who were so painfully unconcerned with tormenting a girl, until her back was practically deformed. Who thrived on the pain their victims endured, and built their empire on the bones of those they murdered.

Bellamy wanted them all gone. Stripped of their power, their position, their lives.

But he couldn't act on that here. It would have to be on a battleground, if his plan managed to go according to plan. It took time, though, and patience. But it came closer the farther they trekked. The cold would mitigate his speed, and quite possibly kill him, but it was better to slip easily into death on a mountain instead of begging for it with each tear of a blade.

He hoped to avoid either of those scenarios as he repeated his idea like a mantra in his mind. Surviving was what he did. It ran like the blood in his veins. Pounded with every beat of his heart.

And it grew louder as they walked, until it was cold enough for him to fake signs of hypothermia.

Bellamy made his breathing shallow and purposefully stumbled over a stone. Then over a branch. He feigned disorientation, until finally, he dropped to his knees, willing his eyes to look glazed in the dawning light.

The Ice Scout that had been the only one to speak stood behind him, and Bellamy heard his footsteps pause.

"Get up," he snarled, probing him in the back with some kind of hilt.

Bellamy tried, and pretended to slip again.

A hand shot out and slapped him on the shoulder. Fingers wrapped around it and the nails bit into his flesh. It took more effort to shy away from the man, every instinct in him instead aching to deliver the same punishment he'd delivered to Clarke.

The Ice Scout leaned in, so close until his breath wafted against Bellamy's cheek, strong and acrid. "Put him on the horse," he barked.

Another Ice Scout appeared, clutching a rein in his fist and more hands gripped around Bellamy as he was weaved on the stallion, hide as black as night. It would blend in perfectly in the evening, but would be a stain on a white sheet during the day.

Bellamy didn't object and he pulled himself up, trying to appear weary and half-frozen. He amped up the tremors, until his entirety was vibrating. But he was warmer than he had been in hours, his heart thumping like a drum in his chest.

This was his only chance.

He waited, until the men began walking again. One Ice Scout still held the reins and led the horse over the rocky terrain, but Bellamy was already working to loosen them. He didn't have much experience riding; very little to none in fact. His ability came second-hand from what he'd noticed with the Grounders and his own close proximity of the animals.

But it was the fastest means of getting away from here, so he'd learn quickly.

Bellamy noted the ground, curving upwards and strewn with large stones. Trees jutted around them and he waited until they became thicker again. Harder to see him. Harder to ride in, but the horse had eyes.

The Ice Scout behind him bit out a command, but Bellamy couldn't hear it over the roar of blood in his ears. His fingers loosened the reins buckle unsteadily, but he didn't let go, until they reached the thicker part of the trees.

Then everything happened in slow motion.

He let go of the straps holding the stirrups together. He latched one hand onto the stallion's neck, feeling the muscles lined there, and reached the other to slap its rear.

It let out a whinny and _moved,_ throwing Bellamy backwards, but he held on, hearing an uproar sound behind him. The horse was moving up and Bellamy struggled to redirect its path, steering it to the right. The horse grazed a trunk and it struck against Bellamy's leg but he didn't feel it. Everything inside him sparked with fire in the freezing wind and he shouted at the horse again.

It obeyed and forced its legs faster, until it was noting more than a mass of rippling power thundering beneath him. Wind lashed against his face, and blurred his vision.

Gunshots splintered from behind him and Bellamy pulled the horse into a different direction, nearly pitching himself off its back.

More fires sounded, until his eardrums were pulled apart and left a dull ringing in his ears. But he didn't stop. He forced the horse faster, and faster-

Suddenly, the beast reared its head back as another flurry of bullets sought them, picking up its front legs. Bellamy lost his grip and the world smeared away as he fell back, his body slamming into the ground.

For five painful moments he fought for breath. Then he struggled to his feet, ignoring the spinning of the trees and sky. The horse let out another whinny before it jetted, shoveling dirt as it went.

Desperation surged inside him and Bellamy started running, in no particular direction, just what he hoped led away from _them._

But the beating sounds of hooves started from behind, and Bellamy had barely managed to turn his head when some unseen force collided with him, knocking him to the forest floor once again. He scrabbled forward, digging his nails into the ground for leverage.

But fingers ensnared him, grabbing him back in a rough motion. They yanked him to his feet and then a hand clamped around his throat.

His breathing evaporated. Bellamy opened his mouth, but no air came and he suddenly felt like a fish out of water, gawping for a breath that wasn't there.

Eyes met his, cold and stony, unfeeling and inhuman as they stared into his. Time ceased to exist and Bellamy clawed at his hand, raking his own down the man's shoulder.

Then his hold vanished and Bellamy sucked in a painful gasp, burning his throat as he did. But the Ice Scout wasn't finished. He snagged Bellamy's gear jacket and pushed him down. He lifted a foot.

And swung.

A burst of fire hit Bellamy in the ribs, soon followed by another. And another. Each one knocked the breath from him and kept it away as more came, until a crack sounded in his head. Black spots exploded over his vision and they collected like patchwork, expanding over his vision until the ground disappeared beneath him and a fragment of words sputtered like fire before being snuffed out.

 _Do not go gentle into that good night._


	15. Blood and Water

**Shorter chapter. But the first chapter was short, too, so I find that this ties in with that. Please review, cuz that gives me a bunch of motivation. I am heading into the part I have been most-excited to write. But your words keep my words coming. (Okay, that sounded really lame, but it's true.) ...Anyway, next chapter!**

Everything hurt. Every movement issued a burst of pain that radiated from Bellamy's chest until that seemed to be all there was. He dipped in and out of consciousness, sometimes awakening to a bright light, sometimes to blackness.

He was distantly aware of movement shuddering beneath him and he went to pick up his head to get a better sense of his surroundings, something slammed it back down.

Bellamy didn't know how much time had passed. Whenever he felt as if he were waking up, something knocked him out again, whether that be a hand or a drug, he didn't know. But it thrust him into a sense of unfeeling, a numbness that weighed down his entire body.

The only time he was lucid was when he was given water and on occasion something stale. It was also getting colder and once, when he dipped back into consciousness, he wasn't greeted by light or dark, but white. A snowy frost blanketing the ground around him, over everything but the footprints the Ice Scouts were carving into the mountainside.

It also came from above. Countless fragments flitted down, as if the stars had fallen from their perch or the sky had unraveled. It was beautiful, but deadly and Bellamy wondered how something so ruthless could look so undisturbed.

* * *

Bellamy choked, coughing up the water someone had just doused him in, chilling him to the bone. He felt delirious, but his eyes snapped open, blurring for a moment in the sudden dark. Slowly, they adjusted and things came into focus.

Stone walls. Stone floor. Torches. He shook his head and went to move his hand but a chinking sounded and he looked up. His hands were bound, suspended to a hook imbedded in the stone over his head. Bellamy swallowed as he looked forward again, his eyes falling to the Ice Scout before him.

He couldn't deny it anymore- fear settled inside him, colder than both the room and the water. He was brutally exposed, his shirt torn open, laid out like a fish ready to be flayed. His chest still ached from his broken rib, but the adrenaline that suddenly coursed through him drowned it out. His body shook with the cold, and though he must've looked comically unthreatening, he still refused to cower.

"Is this," Bellamy began, his voice hoarse and rocky, "Where I'm supposed to beg for my life?"

Stormy eyes met his, but they looked black in the low-light. The torches lining the walls threw shadows over him. "I was hoping it wouldn't be that easy," he said. "But I appreciate the anticipation."

The Ice Scout turned and sauntered the farthest wall from Bellamy. Teeth seemed to glimmer over it, and Bellamy realized with a sinking feeling that they were knives, hanging on the wall. The Ice Scout chose one and returned, wielding a long blade that seemed to be welded into a smile. Bellamy watched it before meeting those eyes again.

The Ice Scout stroked the dull end of the blade, almost like a caress. "This one is my favorite," he murmured. "It has endured many battles. Has slayed many men. But its usefulness goes much further than war, I've found. It's also effective for cutting out information."

Bellamy struggled to keep his voice even. "All you'll manage to do is make a mess."

He swore the man smiled. "This floor has seen much blood. And it will see yours as well."

Bellamy didn't look at the ground. "I hadn't figure you for a man of much conversation," he replied, disregarding the threat. Bellamy knew he couldn't hurt this man. But he could piss him off at least.

The Ice Scout took a step closer, locking their gazes together. "This blade cut your friend," he breathed. "It made her scream and after I was through with her, she begged for death."

Fire surged through Bellamy, hot and scouring until he was burning from the inside out. He wanted to kill this man where he stood. Instead, he just stared back, forcing his voice steady. "And still, she managed to get away. To get past you. You're probably really anxious to extract what you can from me to make up for letting her slip by."

Bellamy saw the man's eyes go flat. The Ice Scout moved, circling him and stopping when he stood behind him, out of sight.

Bellamy felt the tip of the blade kiss his spine.

Then it was ripped down, tearing through his flesh. At first, Bellamy felt nothing. But a moment later, the pain hit and it danced down the middle of his back. He bit his tongue to keep quiet, just as the Ice Scout returned to the front of him and pointed it at his chest.

The metal blurred as he slashed it across, and a new trail of pain blazed its way over Bellamy's biceps.

This time, a gasp broke through his lips.

"Welcome to the Ice Nation," the man hissed.

* * *

 _"Just kill me," Clarke begged, letting the shackles keep her up. Her entire body screamed, any slight movement like another cutting._

 _Perhaps this was retribution for everything she'd done, punishment for every life taken. Each cut a permanent mark for each person killed by her hands. But the guilt was just a lingering reminder now. She couldn't think past anything but the pain._

 _"I don't care anymore," she said._

 _The man simply looked at her, almost contentedly. "Soon enough, Dear," he whispered, bringing down the blade again. "Soon enough."_

Clarke shook the memory away as she peered around her, to the trees and brush covered in a smooth layer of snow. It had taken nearly two weeks to reach this part of the mountain but Clarke recognized it, pointing out the small, nearly invisible mark on the stomach of a trunk to Tyrell and Lincoln.

That's where they'd stopped, suspecting Scouts. When they entered into the Ice Nation, they had to do so quickly.

"We're about two miles outside of it," Clarke told them, retrieving something from her bag. It was a makeshift cloak she'd had sewed together. Both Lincoln and Tyrell carried similar ones, and though not perfect, it would offer them some cover in case they were spotted.

"Put them on," she ordered.

They complied, tying the hoods off at the neck. Clarke pulled hers low over her forehead.

"I'll point you in the direction of the third entrance. But don't go for it until the first grenade blows, okay?"

She looked at them and they met her gaze. Clarke felt a pang of guilt and fear settle in her for the two men she was deliberately putting in harm's way. But neither of them made any objections. On the contrary, determination sparked in Lincoln's eyes, and defiance in Tyrell's.

This wasn't just personal to Clarke. This was personal to each of them.

"May we meet again," she whispered.

Then she plunged out, across the field of snow. It groped at her ankles, the familiarity of it causing memories to flood through, and it was suddenly like it was four months ago, as if she'd never left this mountain.

But Clarke pushed passed it and instead of allowing the fear to freeze her, she allowed it to drive her. This wasn't just for Bellamy. This was for the Boat People. For the Grounders. For a little girl with raven hair, as black as her cloak.


	16. Do Not Go Gentle

**I still have to edit this chapter, so please ignore the mistakes in it. But please review! That motivates me a ton and makes me push passed the writer's block and makes me more determined. Thank you!**

Snow crunched beneath Clarke's soles and a light breeze teased her hair, but she pulled it back as she walked. Every sound made her heart still for a moment and she waited for an Ice Scout to emerge, but nothing happened.

The woods around her kept their silence.

The only other movement she caught was an occasional glimpse of Tyrell and Lincoln as they neared the clearing. But she kept her head bowed and made no move to signal them. Not yet, anyway.

The grenades and single bomb were snuggled at the bottom of her bag, and Clarke gripped one hand around it firmly, and kept the other clutching a short blade. Guns would've been too obvious, but she didn't want to return to this place unprotected, even if it only offered the illusion of protection.

She was aware of everything surrounding her; where she placed her feet, how far they were in between, worsening with each one she took. A very large part of her, the one that lacked reason and logic, yearned to tear the rest of her away from here, but Clarke forced it to be quiet.

It was becoming increasingly harder however, as the nearer she got, the more vivid her memories became, until past and present were barely distinguishable from one another.

 _"Just end it,"_ Clarke heard her voice echo back to her, frail yet impossibly deafening.

 _"Now why would I do that,"_ someone else chimed, in a tone that was deeper and almost feral. _"We're just getting to the good part."_

Clarke came to a halt and stared out, just as the memory drifted away. Before her, lay an open clearing painted a pearlescent white. Soft mounds jutted from the ground, some closer, others nothing more than a lump in the distance, all swelling up from the earth like wounds. To any unknowing passerby, they'd simply appear to be boulders covered in snow, but that was a stark juxtaposition to what Clarke knew was hidden beneath.

A torrent of panic blasted through her; she felt cold and hot at the same time, fire and ice mingling together in her blood. Her hands went to her satchel and she slowly retrieved one of the makeshift grenades. It was a crude shape that bit into her skin, but Clarke held it firmly in her fingers as she wove between the treeline, nearing the area closest to the second entrance.

Clarke wondered how many Scouts were swarming beyond the trees, beneath her feet, if they'd already spotted the trespasser in black. But the frozen world kept quiet and by the time she stopped within throwing distance, fear was a steady stream that ran through her, trickling like cold water down her spine. She didn't know where Lincoln or Tyrell were, but knew they would be waiting for her signal and she lifted her hand once before pulling out the pin.

Then she tossed it as precisely as she could, dropped to the ground, and covered her head with her hands.

A shock rippled over the ground, instantly followed by a deafening explosion, and hot air blasted over her body. An aroma of burnt wood encircled her and Clarke moved behind a tree, ignoring the ringing that pulsed in her ears.

Her heart beat erratically and her breathing was shallow but she didn't have time for panic. No time to feel afraid.

Already, a new trembling was sounding, of feet pounding against the ground just before the entrance burst open, unleashing a swarm of black.

Clarke pressed herself deeper into the tree, as shouts sounded around her and a few bullets broke out, whistling through the air around her. One pinged off the trunk and Clarke remained perfectly still, until the Warriors began branching off to scope out the area.

She waited until one was close enough; until his black cloak brushed against the tree she was against. Then Clarke bent down and whipped around the tree. She slashed it across his upper arm, where less protection was worn over the brachial artery.

Deadly mistake.

A squelching noise sounded and the man pitched forward. He went out to grab her, but she sidestepped it easily. Already, the snow around him was turning red and Clarke silenced him with one more cut. Maybe there was a little voice inside her that spoke of drawing it out, but she also understood that if she were to cave into that desire, she wouldn't be any better than the Ice Nation.

Quickly, Clarke pulled off the armor and put it on herself. It was a tactic that never seemed to lose its effectiveness and a few moments later, she was just another Ice soldier, kicking up snow to hide away the stain of crimson. The man would be discovered soon, but Clarke couldn't consider that. If anything, it would only cause more chaos so she just left him there, hidden within the cover of the trees while she walked straight into the open and towards the entrance that still bled black with soldiers.

* * *

Bellamy had forgotten where he was.

Cold room. Cold floor. All there existed was cold. And the pain. That had become the world around him.

It seemed the Ice Scout took to torturing certain areas of the body, varying from person to person. For Clarke, it had been her back. For Bellamy, it was his chest, carved and sculpted with the tip of a blade. He'd held out for some time, and it had taken nearly hours until he'd finally let out a scream. For the Ice Scout, that had been a victory, viewing it as the first crack in Bellamy's armor.

Then he'd started with the acid.

It was impossibly worse, than it had been when he'd started. The blade cut his flesh, but the acid ate away at it, and Bellamy had lost control over his mouth, unable to keep the cries of anguish to himself. They went on until his throat burned, too.

Somewhere, he was sure, there was that spark of anger inside, but it was dull now and the only thing he was aware of was the drops of blood, falling to the floor. It was slower than water, and thicker and in his delirious state, Bellamy found himself marveling at that one gruesome fact.

One would've thought that after all those he'd killed, all those Bellamy had watched die, he would've noticed that by now.

Through the thick fog, Bellamy heard hinges creak, and the door opened. He tried to open his eyes, and managed a slitted view. He didn't need the full image to glimpse the seax blade, still red with his blood.

The Ice Scout came closer, footsteps resounding around the room and bent his head to meet Bellamy's gaze. "I admire your endurance," he drawled without a hint of admiration in his voice. "Uncompromising loyalty is what keeps a people strong. But which runs deeper? Loyalty or instinct?" He pressed the blade to Bellamy's chest and he flinched.

"You see, every part of you is screaming to tell me what I want to know," the Ice Scout said. "Anything that will end this pain. The more you hold your peace, the more you prove to have reason to."

He pulled down the blade, and Bellamy tried to scream, but what came out was a pathetic groan. The acid made his eyes water and he sucked in a breath as it dissolved the first layer of skin.

"Just tell me what the Commander plans to do and I will finish this," the man continued.

Bellamy spat out blood that collected from biting his tongue. "I don't know anything," he lied. It had been his response for every question he could recall.

The Ice Scout used the blade again and Bellamy lost his footing. The shackles pulled at his tendons but he didn't care.

""You're not protecting anyone," the Ice Scout mused, his eyes appearing ghoulish in the flickering light. "They will die. And they will die slowly. This is all wasted effort on your part."

"Then...why...do you need me?" Bellamy wheezed. "I wouldn't be here if...you were so sure you could kill my people."

Another cut.

"I don't like surprises."

If Bellamy had enough strength, he would've barked out a laugh. His head drooped but he managed to keep his eyes on the Ice Scout's. "Hate to break it to you," he spat. "But this is just as wasted on my end as it is...on yours."

The man took a step pressing his blade once more to Bellamy's abdomen. "But undoubtedly less painful."

The world spun and Bellamy tightened his hands in an effort to hold it still. It didn't work and his eyes went on focused as clusters of black dots collected over his vision.

He waited for the hot press of the blade again, to send him back into the dark waters of unconsciousness or death. He honestly preferred the latter.

The others would survive without him, that's where Clarke had been wrong. Octavia was grown and could protect herself. And when she was incapable, Lincoln would be there to do it for her. But as for Clarke, she was too stubborn to die. Far more stubborn than him, surprisingly. How she'd managed to last four months in this place was something he admired. He could barely last a day and that knowledge actually issued a bitter laugh from him. No, if anyone would survive this war, it wasn't him. It was her. She could survive without him, because she already had.

Resentment still simmered inside him, though, at the prospect of dying this way. Bellamy had, at best, wished for the honor of doing so in battle. To go down fighting. And yet this was his grand send off? Shackled to a stone room in the company of his killer. He almost appreciated the irony.

As a boy born inside walls, he would've at least liked to die beyond them.

The knife flashed and he braced himself for the pain. For the heat and the fire followed by the cold bite of steel. But it didn't come.

What came was more spinning from the ground that shifted and Bellamy thought it was in his head, until he saw the Ice Scout snap his head around. His eyes glanced across at Bellamy, piercing and harboring a threat. With that last look, he stalked out of the room and passed the thick wooden door.

Bellamy's body sagged and the shackles cut into his wrists but he barely felt it. Whatever was going on, for once, he didn't care. The world could've been ending for all the attention he was paying to it. Perhaps it was.

He fell into oblivion then, or so he thought. Darkness seemed to lap around his entirety until it was as if he was sinking into the floor. If this was the precursor to death, he decided it wasn't so bad.

Hours could've passed but through the thickness of it, odd noises sounded. They were familiar and he struggled to place them but couldn't. It was an unsettling noise, though, that grew louder until all was silent. And then the door opened.

Bellamy tried to pry his head up to meet the Ice Scout again, but he couldn't find the mechanism to do that, and managed to loll it to the side.

He blinked, in an attempt to connect what he was seeing with logic. Because it made no sense for an entirely different man, one of who he recognized, to be standing in this room with him. Maybe that acid contained some hallucinogenic. Or maybe Bellamy was just dying.

Then Lincoln went to the wall of knives before coming to him with a blade and Bellamy wanted to pull back, but Lincoln was already there. This was a trick, some way to divulge him of his information and Bellamy wouldn't buy into it.

Lincoln swept the blade down in a large arc and Bellamy braced for impact.

But a loud chinking noise sounded, like steel hitting steel and suddenly, the ground forward. Arms stopped him from meeting it but Bellamy tried to push them away. His strength was gone though, his attempts as poor as trying to bend metal.

"Bellamy, calm down," the man hissed, his voice hurried but low. "We've come to get you out."

Bellamy felt confusion muddle his ability to think. "We? Who's we?" But he could barely understand himself.

Lincoln didn't answer, already wrapping one of Bellamy's arms around his neck and walking them both towards the door that now stood ajar. Outside it, Bellamy could finally see that they were in almost what appeared to be a cavern, a long tunnel of sorts with torches lining both walls.

A banging echoed from his right and Bellamy cast a look that way, just as another man appeared, bloody blade in hand. Tyrell.

Reality struck him then and Bellamy felt sudden adrenaline spark some movement into him. He gave them both incredulous looks. "What is this?" he asked, staring at them in bewilderment.

Lincoln turned his attention to both directions of the cavern. When it seemed to be clear, Tyrell began walking ahead as he and Lincoln lagged behind.

"I wasn't expecting a rescue mission," Bellamy said when neither deigned to respond. "I take it Clarke planned this."

But that made little sense to him; Clarke wouldn't make such a reckless call.

"We didn't come just to retrieve you," Lincoln replied, continually glancing behind them.

"So that's just a perk, then," Bellamy said, but his tone was serious. "You're both going to get yourselves killed for nothing."

"Clarke was willing to risk it."

"That doesn't mean I am."

Lincoln paused for a moment, listening intently before starting again, and Bellamy was aware of the ground steadily rising upwards. The cavern seemed to go on endlessly. But then groans sounded up ahead, instantly accompanied by a putrid smell that neither Lincoln nor Tyrell seemed disturbed by and they entered through a chamber, the sides of the tunnels expanding into clefts that held bars driven into the ground between them. There were rows of them, and Bellamy's incredulity slowly gave way to disgust at the conditions these people were in. Living, breathing people, rotting away in the dirt.

Bellamy knew he couldn't help them and instead, he added them to his list, of those this war would be fought for. He doubted these people had ever done anything to deserve such treatment, and wondered what kind of monster you'd have to be before you did.

Hands reached out to them between the bars, fingers stretching towards Bellamy but he walked passed them.

From the distance, a bang suddenly erupted and the ground seemed to move beneath them. Dust fell from the cavern ceiling and Lincoln pushed him faster, until they were passed the cells.

"What's that?" Bellamy asked, choking on the grime.

"Grenade," Lincoln answered bionically. "Clarke blew the armory."

That drew him up short and he nearly halted in his tracks. A burst of anger shuddered through him and he ground his teeth. "She's here," he said.

Clearly, he'd misjudged her earlier; Clarke _had_ made a reckless call.

"Is she out of her mind?" Bellamy snapped, gazing across at Lincoln. "She's supposed to be leading your people, not crossing enemy lines. What if she's killed?"

Then the alliance would be broken or made significantly less secure, losing a vital asset for his people. It would also make the Grounders unprepared and would consequently cause them to lose more numbers. And that was only if they would still fight.

Lincoln's expression was fathomless. "She already accounted for that. Without the armory, your people have a better chance of winning this war."

"While simultaneously sending _your_ people to be slaughtered."

Lincoln gave him a warning look, but jerked his attention back when Tyrell raised a hand. Lincoln shoved Bellamy against the wall just as movement broke from around the bend in the cavern and shadows lurched up, outlining the profile of approaching guards. Bellamy watched Tyrell unsheathed a knife as Lincoln did the same and Bellamy willed a weapon of his own into his hands but none appeared.

They waited until the men neared. Then Tyrell brought out his blade, digging it into one of the men's thighs. They shouted in pain as the two others turned, but Lincoln was already on them, with one slash to the throat and the other with a blade embedded in his neck.

"Hurry," Lincoln bit out as they walked over the fallen bodies and farther into the cavern. They all moved faster now, and Bellamy stumbled but Lincoln forced him on, up the steadily rising ground until they were led into a different kind of chamber, significantly smaller than the one he'd been in. A stairwell carved from the ground rose to the far left and Lincoln made for it, just as footsteps sounded from the top of them. They echoed down to them and Lincoln raised his blade, pushing Bellamy back.

He wanted to object but he was no good in this condition, and was forced to wait and let someone else fight for him.

When the first one hit the floor, Tyrell was the first to him, driving his knife into his stomach in a fast upper-jab, between where the armor connected. Blood leaked from the wound and to the ground, and Tyrell quickly retracted the blade before sending it into another.

Surprise had been their advantage but it soon declined and the Ice soldiers were able to retrieve their own weapons, and the real battle broke out, black gear and Grounder gear blurring together, staining the floor red. A few gunshots broke free but soon, they were consumed by hand-to-hand combat, swords and blades clashing against each other.

One caught Tyrell on the shoulder and waist, blood blossoming across, but both were shallow cuts. The clang of metal-on-metal reverberated around the room, penetrated only when some blade stuck out from somewhere and more crimson trailed to the floor.

But more guards were coming, flooding through like a single-file dam until no blade could withstand its current and Tyrell raised his gun. He fired a few rounds, mowing down the first row of Ice soldiers from the safety of the entryway. It helped for a moment.

And then the Ice Scouts were firing back and Lincoln returned to Bellamy, partially shielding him as he shoved him forward.

Tyrell took down a few more, leaving only a cluster of them left. They remained by the door, blocking the only exit. Another round left only four.

They'd run out of bullets soon enough and the other guns littering the ground were in the middle of open-fire.

Bellamy tried to think of something that would offer a diversion. But any supplies was limited, and he pulled whatever knowledge he knew with his minimal time spent with Raven. His head pounded but he forced his mind to focus until an idea came to him. "Lincoln," Bellamy said, his voice still hoarse. "Lincoln!"

The man met his eyes. "The torches," Bellamy said. "If you use them to heat up the guns, they'll discharge."

Lincoln seemed to understand and he made for the first torch, pulling it from its cradle. Then he flung it over to the closest firearm on the ground, and another bullet made him duck back. He quickly eased over to the next torch and tossed that to another gun. An empty clicking resounded and Tyrell dropped beside them, discarding his gun. "It's out," he said.

More shots fired, digging into the dirt beside them and Bellamy covered his head. "Those guns are going to misfire," Bellamy told him, glancing at the flames that licked at the weapons. "It should offer enough distraction-"

A gunshot sounded, followed by another and the floor lit up with bullets, sparking from the barrels and ricocheting around the room. The Ice soldiers didn't anticipate it and a few were caught in their feet and legs, bringing them down before finishing one or two off.

Tyrell motioned Lincoln and Bellamy forward. "Go!"

Lincoln pulled Bellamy with him, hissing as one bullet grazed his leg. One Ice soldier reached for them, but Lincoln dug the blade into his back, pushing Bellamy harder.

He tripped and nearly fell to the ground but managed to right himself as they neared the stairs. He made it to the first one and Lincoln hefted him up the next. They were almost there. A flight up, and Bellamy could already see the daylight, splitting from beneath the door.

But a cry of pain coming from behind him made them both pause.

One of the last remaining soldiers had caught Tyrell off-guard, and Bellamy spotted the patch of blood expanding over the Grounder's chest. This wound was deep, and two Ice soldiers still stood between him and the stairway.

Lincoln took a step down, towards him, but Tyrell shook his head.

Bellamy was about to force his broken body down there himself. He didn't even know this man, whether or not he had someone waiting for him back home. And yet Tyrell had fought for him, had bled for him. And now he was going to die for him?

Lincoln met Bellamy's gaze. "He made his choice," he said, his voice epithetic. Then he looked back to Tyrell.

 _"Yu gonplei ste odon,"_ Lincoln murmured. _Your fight is over._

Bellamy wanted to stop this but Lincoln was already dragging him up the flight of stairs and he had just enough to meet Tyrell's eyes, brave and unwavering, before the man raised something to his lips and bit down.


	17. Ruin

**I love this chapter. I didn't really struggle with it as much as the last one and it was much more of a breeze to write. Plus, one of my most-anticipated scenes is approaching and I'm overly excited. Please review! One review really ignited my motivation ( directed at Avid Reader) so please please keep them coming. :)  
**

Clarke felt trapped the moment she slid through the entrance, like an animal cornered inside a cage. The walls wrapped around her, binding and constricting her until she found it hard to breathe. Memories bombarded her, and voices echoed from the past, full of threats and the hiss of blades and colorless eyes that seemed to stare straight into her soul.

 _Armory,_ Clarke reminded herself, pushing through the memories as she plunged back through the meandering current of soldiers and into a chamber filled with barracks. No one looked at her, though.

No one saw a Sky person or a Grounder; they didn't see her at all.

She darted forward, trickling through the moving throng. A few orders were barked overhead as she moved down the tunnel, deeper and deeper until the only source of light was provided by torches. She called up her memories of what she knew of this part of the Nation, pausing as the tunnel branched off. One direction led to the Ice Queen's chambers; the other led to the armory.

Clarke waited until no one ran passed her and bent down, feeling the leveled ground, sensing the slight tilt downward of the left tunnel. The armory would be buried deeper than the chambers and Clarke took that one, her footsteps echoing off the walls around her. Some Scouts ran passed her and Clarke sped up, trying to look rushed like them. It wasn't a difficult act to portray.

Down the tunnel went, the shape of it cruder than the corridors in Mount Weather and much, much darker. But unlike Mount Weather, there were no directions, nor points of reference. It was easy to get lost here; just one wrong turn to to find yourself swallowed by the earth.

A shout broke out and Clarke froze, her breath stilling in her chest. But again, no one saw her and she pushed passed her panic and moved again, faster and faster until she met a bend in the cavern. At the end of it stood a large door, crafted from what looked like stone or a dull metal, held together by rivets. The door wasn't open, but it was unlocked and Clarke eased it open just as a couple of Ice soldiers materialized down the cavern.

Clarke acted quickly, throwing the door open and pulling herself inside. She had a split second to marvel at the rows and rows of guns, not just AK-47s, but she spotted a few AR-15s and even some smaller handguns among the rest.

She quickly snatched up two of the AK's and held them out to the Ice soldiers. "Hurry!" she screamed at them, and they took the guns in their hands before fleeing back the way they'd come.

Clarke dismissed the bitterness she felt at arming them, but it gave her the time she needed to retrieve the grenade. She backed up a few yards, but already she was running out of time, as more footfalls echoed from behind her. It had been almost easy up to this point and Clarke prayed the explosion would provide enough chaos for her to get away, but if not, at least she'd be able to take the armory out. She'd almost gladly bury herself if it meant burying these weapons with her.

Clarke stood back as far as she could, until the Ice soldiers were coming around the bend and she raised the grenade.

 _I will not miss,_ she told herself, before casting the grenade into the door.

Then she turned and bolted. She got as far as she could before the blast sounded, knocking her off her feet and pooling heat around her. The ground shook and dirt fell from overhead, along with rocks and other debris. Her ears rang, and smoke filled the tunnel but Clarke pulled herself up, feeling the strain of the cavern floor. She choked and gagged, the smoke stinging her eyes as she pushed her legs forward, back up the way she had entered from.

She'd essentially buried one of the Ice Scouts, but the other was simply wounded, his leg crushed by fallen debris.

"Intruder!" he screamed, that word ricocheting off the walls like bullets.

Clarke quickly retrieved her knife but the cavern silenced him for her, raining down large chunks of rock and dirt and burying him, too. He barely managed to raise the alarm a second time before his voice was cut off.

She coughed again, but stumbled forward, through the growing haze and up, up, up. This much smoke inhalation was dangerous and Clarke went as fast as she could before the tunnel could bury her as well, not stopping or even hesitating before she burst into the barracks chambers again.

More shouts sounded around her, but Clarke had no time to see if they'd noticed her, dropping to the ground behind one of the barracks and pulling out the bomb.

It was a simple one, lit by a fuse and Clarke set it on the ground lined in stone, unraveling the charge until it snaked across a yard of floor. She gretrieved a pair of rocks and flashed them together. Once, twice. Again. The fourth time sparked and the end of the fuse lit up, wafting a trail of smoke and a tendril of fire.

Clarke coughed again but stood and reached for the exit, to the stairs that led out to fresh air and freedom. The door stood ajar as more soldiers flooded down and up, two tidal waves crashing together.

Clarke turned her face from them as she thrust herself through the soldiers, up the stairs until she broke through the door and fresh air surged around her. She wheezed and choked but sucked in grateful lungs that burned and nipped at her raw throat.

Clarke went to take cover and headed for the tree line, counting the seconds for the bomb. Raven had said a minute and Clarke was already on fifty.

But her feet slowed when she counted down the last ten seconds and no explosion sounded.

Dread uncoiled in her and she looked back at the entrance, door gaping like an open maw, waiting for the shake of the earth, for it to breathe fire.

But it didn't come.

"No," Clarke murmured after a few more crucial moments elapsed. But the entrance was still, its structure unperturbed.

Had the bomb been a dud? Malfunctioned somehow? Clarke couldn't believe that; Raven was thorough in her work. And she'd known how vital this was. No, the flame must've been stomped out in the chaos and she glanced between it and the tree line.

A tiny voice wondered if the bomb was necessary. If she could just leave it all as it was. She'd caused the most damage, by burying the armory and Clarke gazed around, eyes going to the third entrance. Whether the others were out by now or not, she couldn't tell and Clarke's attention returned to entry one, at the traces of smoke that still billowed from it.

Maybe Lincoln and Tyrell had run into trouble. Perhaps the bomb would be a last-ditch effort for them.

But this had been the plan, Clarke told herself. And the others could be counting on it, even if that meant them having to leave her behind.

Clarke turned back, stumbling through the snow until she reached the entrance again. Smoke and shouts rose up but Clarke reentered the chaos, shouldering her way through bodies and back down into the barracks. She returned to the one sheltering the bomb behind it.

Clarke had been right; the flame was snuffed out, and she hurriedly relit it, hands quivering with anxiety. It took nearly six attempts before this one burned, but it did, and the flame resumed its path along the fuse. Clarke backed away from it, discarded the rocks, and slipped through the soldiers.

She was nearly to the stairs when someone grabbed her, a thick hand wrapping around the hood and pulling down. It caught up some of her hair, wrenching a few from her scalp and she hissed at the sudden bite of pain, dulled by the swell of panic that coursed through her veins.

It yanked her back and she met the eyes of a soldier, narrowed and lit with rage. Cool steel bit her cheek and Clarke acted with instinct, dropping down and driving her elbow into his gut. But the soldier was fast, and went for her again, barreling into her and knocking them both to the floor. Her back slammed against the ground, and the man was on top of her, straddling her and reaching for her neck.

Cold hands gripped around the skin there and Clarke strained against him, his fingers skimming the soft flesh beneath her jawline.

Clarke pushed at his chest, his hands, tried gouging his eyes, but this person was stronger and his hands finally found purchase, wrapping around her neck.

The air left her lungs and Clarke gasped, but no breath drew in. She could hear her heartbeat echo in her ears; could feel her pulse pump against the man's hands.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the flame teasing the last bit of fume and she released her hold on the soldier, his hold tightening and she fumbled for her knife.

Blackness burst in front of her vision just when she found the hilt of it.

Sound narrowed around Clarke, cocooning her in a moment of infinity, blackening around the edges as her consciousness began to slip. But with her last reservation of strength, she raised it and slashed down, splitting the man's arm open.

His grip disappeared and Clarke dragged in a strangled breath.

She drove the blade into his shoulder before he could grab her again and twisted to keep the wound from closing. The soldier screamed in pain as Clarke pulled herself to her feet and practically threw herself at the stairs.

When she reached the top, she launched herself onto the snow, just as the ground heaved and the entrance blew. It breathed out flames and roared, the sound like an ethereal beast, wounded and bleeding ash.

* * *

Lincoln pulled them through the entrance and into the bitter cold. It clung to Bellamy's skin, chilling him to the bone. It was accompanied by a string of shouts, and he caught the blurred outlines of soldiers through the stunning brightness.

He was shoved forward, thrust across the snow and in the direction of the trees. Mayhem was breaking out around them, but Bellamy focused on putting one foot in front of the other, willing his vision to adjust to his surroundings.

"Where is she?" Bellamy asked, squinting to see more clearly.

Lincoln glanced back but kept forcing Bellamy forward, keeping his blade ready.

"There!" Someone screamed, and Lincoln pulled Bellamy along faster, until it was taking every ounce of willpower to keep himself erect. They were close to the treeline when the soldier caught up, and Lincoln ducked just in time to avoid a slash to the neck. Before the soldier could correct it, Lincoln flipped up his blade and drove it through the man's chest.

He tossed him aside and resumed the trek, pausing for a moment only when they slipped into the foliage.

Bellamy's breath heaved and the coldness burned, freezing the spilt blood on his chest. "Where's Clarke meeting you?" he asked through ragged spurts.

Lincoln's eyes roved over the expanse, to the soldiers that were still approaching the woods, branching apart like a pack of wolves. "The bomb hasn't blown yet," he said and his expression darkened. "We have to go."

Bellamy looked at him in disbelief. He didn't exactly feel like sticking around this place, but he wasn't about to abandon Clarke. Not after he just let Tyrell sacrifice himself.

But Lincoln was already moving back, supporting him at his side.

Bellamy pushed off him, with enough strength to force the Grounder to a halt. "We're not just leaving," he hissed.

Lincoln's eyes flashed. "Those were her orders, Bellamy. If we stay here, we all die."

Bellamy shook his head, ignoring the pounding it ignited at his left temple. No, he couldn't do this; he couldn't leave her, especially after experiencing for himself how these monsters worked.

Once, he'd told Clarke that people did what they had to do to survive. But the Ice Nation wasn't just about survival; they were advocates of terror and pain, who didn't seek just to kill people. They sought to break them as well.

He glowered back at Lincoln. "If she's caught, they won't just torture her. They'll _mutilate_ her."

"She won't suffer," Lincoln responded, his voice empty. It fell flat.

Bellamy raised himself taller. Anger emanated from him at the implication as an almost unfeeling coolness radiated from Lincoln. "Exactly what does that mean?" he bit out.

Lincoln didn't reply, but his silence was answer enough, and it was as if a huge weight had suddenly dropped inside Bellamy's chest. He shook his head again, keeping his eyes on the man before him.

Bellamy understood loss. He had come to know pain and fear very intimately on the ground. But he also understood loyalty, and sacrifice, and honor. Had bled for his people and pushed the odds just to keep them alive. But he hadn't done that alone.

Clarke was there.

When that drop ship door had opened, she was the one that had introduced partnership to him. What it meant to meet someone halfway. Before that, Bellamy was accustomed to doing everything on his own, answering only to himself for all that he did. But she'd made him compromise; had forced him to put his trust in someone again. She'd shown him the man he'd always wanted to become. And where he'd struggled, she'd made up for. All that he wasn't, she was. And what she wasn't, he would be.

"No," Bellamy snapped, "This is Clarke we're talking about. And we are not-"

Lincoln grabbed Bellamy roughly and yanked him forward, so hard his body belied what instinct shouted, and he nearly pitched forward into the snow.

Bellamy pulled back, ignoring the scream from his wounds. "No," he repeated, his tone deathly cold. It rang in warning. "I won't let her do this."

Lincoln glanced back at the clearing, the sounds of soldiers closing in. "Then do it for Octavia," he said. "If you die now, it makes this worthless. Then Tyrell gave his life for nothing."

Bellamy clenched his jaw, wishing for the strength to hit Lincoln. The trees. One of those guards. Anything. Guilt stabbed at him, too, but above it was the fear. Fear at the prospect of leaving someone he cared about behind. His friend, his companion, his confidant.

His partner.

But Bellamy also knew what Clarke would tell him. She'd be pissed, and would lecture him on all the things such a stupid choice would render. And like Lincoln, she'd lay into the sacrifice people gave, and the need to prove it justified.

"Clarke made it off this mountain once," Lincoln said, gaze still trailed on the area behind Bellamy. "She can do it again."

Bellamy shut his eyes for a moment. He had no decision to make. Clarke had already done it for him. Dying wouldn't help her, just as it wouldn't help him and he felt the resolution solidify into something as heavy and paramount as lead.

Lincoln looked at him and he hesitated for a moment before finally nodding.

They moved, and Lincoln helped support Bellamy's weight as they passed deeper into the trees, each footfall feeling heavier than the last.

Bellamy knew that Clarke had borne the weight of the guilt when she'd left him. Both in Mount Weather and at Camp Jaha.

 _I bear it so they don't have to._

Now it was his turn.


	18. Stories and Rumors

**Next chapter! Gimme yo thoughts and yo 'pinions. ...Ow, okay, it actually hurt to spell it like that. If you would ever be so inclined as to articulate your personal viewpoint involving this story, I would be honored to receive it. Ah, that's better. So here you go!**

Clarke remembered running.

After the bomb exploded and she managed to stand, she was pushing her legs forward, towards the trees as the world swirled around her had gone still and quiet, the only movement catching her eye being the fire, dancing tauntingly up from what had once been the soldier's quarters. Now it was dust and rubble; buried beds and buried men.

The ground dipped and rippled beneath her and Clarke felt unsteady as she went, having to stop and shake off the dizziness. Her only focus remained on getting away. She knew this mountain more than she would've liked to, and she let her instincts guide her when her own sense of direction was muddled by the dizziness.

She couldn't collapse here. If the Ice Nation found her, she'd return to that torture chamber. And if they didn't, she'd simply freeze to death.

Clarke shook her head, trying to clear it of the fog as she went, the snow clutching around her shins and holding them greedily. It was getting harder to lift her feet, harder to keep upright as everything spun, the trees uprooting from the ground and the sky fracturing into black dots around her. They collected in her vision and she tried to blink them away, but they were insistent and Clarke managed to get a few more yards before the world disappeared, and was replaced with oblivion.

* * *

For awhile, Bellamy was forced to rely on cold presses.

The plants were frozen and covered in snow, so no alternatives for a poultice were available. It was ironic, in a way, because the one thing that was helping his wounds was also the thing that was steadily killing him by means of hypothermia, and if he were in better conditions, he would've almost thought it comical.

Lincoln supported half of his weight, as they trekked down the mountain and each sound made Lincoln's head snap up, but it always turned out to be some animal, or mound of snow falling from a branch. Bellamy also kept his eyes out for Clarke, and as the days passed and she didn't show, a lump began to form in his throat and his heart slowly sank further inside his chest.

Out of the three people that had risked their lives to help him, one was dead, the other was possibly wandering a Scout-infested forest somewhere, and the last was a man he had, at one point, strewn up in the drop ship and tortured.

Again, there was something horrendously ironic that Bellamy was fighting his own condemnation over the prospect. He couldn't help but keep his mouth shut as his wounds were dressed and redressed, taking it as retribution or payback for all everyone had sacrificed for him.

 _I'm the one that's supposed to take the risks._

His own words, the ones he'd spoken to Clarke, haunted him now. And he couldn't rid himself of the gory images that came with them, of her being tortured or bleeding in the snow. Regardless of where she was or if she were still alive, he hoped she'd stay that way. Bellamy couldn't honestly picture her taking any form of a swift death; she was like him, which meant she'd fight until she was lying in a pool of her own sweat and blood, until her final breath was pulled from her.

And for just a second, for one glimmering moment, Bellamy was selfish enough to hope for it.

* * *

Warmth wrapped around Clarke, and slowly, she became aware of the crackling of fire.

Images flashd through her mind, of trailing fuse and fire-breathing entrances. and she suddenly jolted upright.

A hand fell to her shoulder and Clarke instantly retracted from it, until her back hit something.

She expected Ice Scouts. Black masks and gleaming blades, but when Clarke allowed her eyes to adjust, she was greeted by light brown monolid ones, framed inside a heart-shaped face.

Clarke's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she studied the person before her; female and judging by the few wrinkles carved into her features, Clarke estimated her to be somewhere around her mother's age. Pale skin, dark hair pinned up halfway. Her shoulders were heavily padded in skins, varying in color and pattern. The dressings were familiar and Clarke gazed around the room. Or, lean-to. Cold air teased through the open draft, but the fire before the entrance blocked it until it was an almost comfortable breeze.

Instinctually, Clarke looked for a weapon, at least something that was sharp like a rock, but the woman gave her a hard look. "I would not do that if I were you," she said, her voice lilting over the words in such a way that suggested to Clarke it was not her native language.

But the accent was familiar, like her clothing, and Clarke stilled. "You're one of the Boat People," she breathed, the realization bringing with it a graphic picture, of a broken village strewn with broken bodies.

The woman eyed her warily, her gaze speculating and inquisitive, but didn't reply.

Clarke took that as answer enough. "You escaped," she guessed and against her better judgment, hope simmered inside her. "Are there others with you? Have you seen a little-"

"I did not escape the raid," the woman interjected, eyes turning cold. "I have resided in these mountains for months."

Disappointment flooded her and on top of it, grief. But Clarke pushed it away, appearing nonchalant before the woman. "Why? Did you know they would attack?"

"You dress like the Woods Clan, but speak like something else," the Boat woman mused, disregarding her inquiry. "Where exactly, does that make you from?"

Wariness guarded Clarke and this time, it was her that remained silent. She wasn't about to exchange blind faith with a member of a tribe whose descendants had all gone up in smoke.

"If I wanted to kill you," continued the stranger. "I would've done so already."

Clarke scrutinized her. "I am a part of the Woods Clan," she said. It wasn't technically a lie; she was a part of it, however temporary it might be.

The woman shook her head, tendrils of brown hair falling over her shoulders. "You lie. A trait I can hardly blame you for. But if either of us wish to know anything of the other, one must take the first step towards it."

Clarke narrowed her eyes, not moving them from the woman's. This could have been a trick; a trap; a tactic, but she still bothered to ask. "Why'd you help me?" She couldn't help her curiosity provoked by her suspicion. Because in this world, those who helped strangers had a tendency of doing so with ulterior motives.

The woman moved closer to her, until Clarke was groping the ground for a sharp stone. "I don't often find people fleeing the Ice Nation," she breathed. "Did they keep you in their prison chambers?"

Clarke stared back, uncertainty rising inside her, but she kept her voice leveled. "Why do you want to know?"

She could see the woman was starting to become irritated, her tone growing a few degrees colder. "I believe some of my people to be inside. I want to know if you've seen them."

Clarke swallowed at the mention. It hadn't really occurred to her the Ice Nation would've taken prisoners; they'd have had little use for them, and Clarke didn't want to know the details behind their reasons. Torture, entertainment. It didn't really matter which-all led to only one thing; pain.

"I wasn't in the chambers," she finally answered. "I was there to get someone out."

"And was it a success?"

She hesitated. "I don't know." The truth of it stung. It bit into her like a blade in her back. Perhaps Lincoln and Tyrell were dead. Maybe they'd never even made it to Bellamy. Maybe he was still in that room, being slowly sliced open.

"They're dead, then," the woman said apathetically, devoid of emotion. "I've wished to rescue my own people. But to do so would be suicide."

"Is that why you're up here?" Clarke asked, and she couldn't help but feel some resentment towards the woman for doing nothing. "Waiting for the right time to strike?"

The woman gave her a bitter smile. "I have no means of doing so. Few of my people still live, and I cannot endanger my life to save a few others. Doing so would leave those left would weaken their position further."

Clarke looked at her speculatively, gauging her expression as she asked, "Who are you? If the Boat People found it necessary to keep you safe?"

The woman nodded in what almost seemed to be appreciation. "My advisor is Konuu," she said. "And my father."

"I wasn't aware Konuu had a daughter," Clarke replied. "What does that make you then?"

But the woman shook her head. "I say nothing if you don't. Valuable information can only be exchanged with the likes of it."

Clarke glanced at the woman's hands, calloused but feminine, and expected it to go towards some weapon. But they remained still in her lap. "How do I know you won't kill me?" she asked.

The woman shrugged. "You don't. But I have no such guarantee for myself."

From the corner of her eye, Clarke tried to deduce the quickest means of escape, but it seemed her options were limited. The spacing was cramped and the only exit was blocked by the woman. On a more promising note, however, she was of the Boat People; they weren't exactly reputed for violence.

She met her eyes again. "Clarke," she said. "And I am one of the Sky people."

The woman's lip turned up in an almost derisive smile. "But you wear Grounder clothes. How can that be? The last I heard, Sky and Grounder were not on good terms."

"Their Commander was killed," Clarke informed her. "And I was appointed their Locum."

The woman studied her and Clarke couldn't tell if she was pleased or not with the information given. She simply looked. Maybe this stranger had expected something a bit more promising, but if it was one thing people had the habit of doing with Clarke, it was underestimating her. On the outside, she simply looked like a young girl. They couldn't possibly see the blood on her hands or the dozens of names of those she killed, forever branded into her mind.

The woman smirked and evidently appearing satisfied, spoke. "Konuu is my advisor," she repeated. "He is not head of the Boat People, as perhaps you have assumed. I am Luna. His only daughter and Leader of the Boat People."

Clarke's eyes widened in surprise and then quickly narrowed in consideration. "And that's why you were sent here," Clarke speculated. "For protection."

"And yet, as Locum, you thought it wise to enter the Ice Nation," Luna mused. "I have my doubts on their Commander's decision."

Clarke said nothing on that.

"And what of the explosion?" she asked. "I can only assume that was you."

"I destroyed their armory."

At this, Luna's expression gave way to surprise, and she seemed impressed. "I don't know whether I would constitute that as brave or impulsive. Brave, that you were capable of doing that much. But impulsive, at the inciting war with the Ice Nation."

"It was already incited," Clarke quickly responded. "They made the first attack. If anyone incited war, it was them."

"A spider may attack a fly but that does not provoke the fly to fight back," Luna said, eyes still surveying hers. "You would have been better off abandoning the attempt and leaving altogether."

Clarke lifted her eyebrows in subtle disbelief. "You make it sound as if they're indestructible. My burying their weapons and a few dozen of their men should be proof enough that they're far from unbeatable."

"No doubt that has its cost, but the Ice Nation has stood for decades. It is not a house built upon sand, as you make it out to be," Luna replied a bit dryly.

Clarke shook her head. "I'm not looking for easy. Possible, is more like it. And from what I've seen, it is. Every empire has to fall sometime," she added.

Luna pursed her lips into a terse line, staring through Clarke until it was becoming unnerving, like a hunter studying its prey. "You have spirit," she admitted, the compliment catching Clarke off-guard. "But spirit is only half courage, half stupidity, and it would appear you've sufficiently delved into the latter portion. Yes, the Ice Nation has its defects, but those remain to be unseen. And you cannot possibly win a war blind."

Clarke sighed, but didn't back down, regardless of her mounting reserve. This war had already started; the fuse had been sparked, but unlike the one she'd set in the barracks, this one had no chance of being snuffed out.

"Do you know anything that might help?" she asked.

Luna leaned forward. "I've had years of unveiled threats from the Ice Nation. Stories passed down from Leader to Leader. Rumors are scarce but they do exist." She smiled. "But tell me then, Clarke of the Sky people and Commander of the Woods. What is there in it for me?"

Clarke didn't even contemplate much over it as she said, "I promise that during this war, I will try to get your people out. And that I will not endanger them further over the course of it."

Luna chuckled without humor. "That sounds promising."

"It's more than you've given them."

At that, she darkened, but she couldn't necessarily deny it. Slowly, Luna nodded in agreement. "Very well. What I know of the Ice Nation on that front is simple speculation, purged from what my predecessors have encountered with them. From my understanding, the Ice Nation is a plexus of sorts," she said, keeping her gaze on Clarke. "An intricate system with its residents assigned to specific operations, like a hive, in the same way that their greatest strength is also their greatest weakness. One that is rumored to cause an automatic ceasefire."

"What weakness is that?"

Luna's smile returned, the derisory one that made Clarke instinctively tense. "In a hive, you must strike at the heart, because what type of misfortune can pass to make the workers stop?"

Clarke felt her heartbeat quicken and Luna's smile broadened, as if she were imagining it herself. "Kill the Queen."


	19. Crucible

**I need brutal honesty with this chapter. Brutal, guys. Does this chapter still portray the characters correctly? Or how you'd imagine them to be? I read these fanfictions (some of which that are really great) that include more tearful versions of Bellamy and Clarke, specifically Bellamy, but I never associated him with being much for tears or real sorrowful expressions, I guess. He's got kind of that don't-cry-just-beat-someone persona. Or at least did. So I hope the development of that is decent.**

Clarke departed the following day. A storm was coming that she needed to get ahead of, or go around completely which would delay her arrival a few more days. She'd mulled over the information Luna had given her, of an automatic ceasefire and possibly, Luna had added, an all-out surrender. Clarke wanted the details, to know every seemingly insignificant bit she could divulge, but Luna's stories, though helpful, were vague on those points.

But at least now, Clarke had a plan. She'd thought of targeting the Queen anyway but knew without a grain of doubt, that she would be protected. Which Clarke saw as a good thing; her level of protection would mirror the truth of Luna's words and that inevitably gave Clarke somewhere to aim.

She'd attempted to convince Luna to join them, but the Boat Woman was content to remain in her small lean-to, to await the news of the war and whether her people would ever make it out or not.

 _"I have my own debt to pay them,"_ Clarke had told Luna _"I'll do what I can."_

 _"I hope that's true, for your sake,"_ she'd responded, a bit cryptic, but Clarke had understood the innuendo. _"The Boat People are not proponents of war or execution, but if you fail in your attempt, I expect your answerability."_

The burden fell on her as she left the woman behind, the weight of it settling across from that she felt for the Grounders and her own people. Just over a month ago, Clarke had despaired at the idea of being responsible for any other lives beyond her own. Now she was offering it, and she understood that if she were to fail, that weight would be permanent, engraved more deeply than the wounds on her back.

But this was the price of war, and someone had to bear it.

* * *

By the end of the first week, Bellamy's hope was beginning to wane. Its presence had, in the least, offered him meager solace, and had given him more reason to push his bleeding body forward rather than rest in the snow like he was aching to do. But as his hope faded, the loss of it was greater than its comfort had been, with every day that passed that held no sign of Clarke in it.

Lincoln took notice too, but remained much more stoic and composed than Bellamy felt. His entire being hurt on the outside and on the in, not just from the broken rib, but also from their losses.

One evening, as they'd set camp, Bellamy had asked Lincoln of Tyrell. "Did he have a family?" he asked. Did he have someone he needed to apologize to or thank? The concept seemed insufficient, but he wasn't about to do nothing.

Lincoln took a drink from the skin clad canteen. "His woman, or wife, died in a raid a few years ago," he said. "They have a four-year-old son."

The words stabbed at Bellamy's chest and he looked away from Lincoln. Bellamy understood the obvious void felt, growing up without a father. There was always a tangible vacancy, in the place besides his mother, but now that boy didn't even have the luxury of one parent.

"What's his name?" he asked.

Lincoln stoked their small fire. "Ronin."

Bellamy said nothing else, silently matching the name to a boy without a face. He couldn't do much in honor of the man who had traded a life with his son for Bellamy's, but he could try and keep the boy safe. As safe as was possible, in the middle of a war.

And if he failed, then their broken family would simply be reunited.

* * *

Days passed them by; days that steadily grew into weeks as they descended the mountain and the air became less chilled and the frost on the plants melted off.

When Bellamy finally got a poultice on his wounds, he couldn't help but feel somewhat surprised that he actually survived this far. Without Ice Scouts coming after them, without hypothermia claiming him, without his body giving up the fight. He was more bullheaded than he thought.

Lincoln and him spoke little throughout the decline, instead keeping their attention alert on everything around them. But they were coming into the dry, forested terrain, the lingering remnants of snow disappearing under their feet.

Bellamy still needed medical attention and would undoubtedly receive some of it from Mount Weather, but as the herbs took effect, the pain was dulling to a tolerable nag. Whatever it was, it had counteracted some of the acid's work. It still burned to the touch, but Bellamy suspected that if he survived this long, he'd made it out of the woods.

Literally.

A few miles later, Tondc came into view, first with its moss-covered ravine, and then the statue, jutting up like some formidable being, guarding the entrance.

Bellamy started walking, faster than what he should've been, but he managed and where he stumbled, Lincoln offered a hand.

The doors opened and he was beckoned underneath the entryway and through it, into a village that still held unnatural silence. But it was still here, full of living breathing people.

Someone shouted something in Triangesleng, and attention fell on them, eyes meeting Bellamy's and Lincoln's. But the majority were trailed on his covered chest, spots of blood still peeking through.

Then someone was running to him, cutting through the growing throng.

Bellamy felt his first smile in weeks tug on his face just as Octavia plowed into him. The force of it hurt and his chest burned, meriting a flinch, but he returned it as best he could, hid relief putting out some of the fire.

Octavia pulled back, her eyes meeting his, shining with unshed tears. "You're an idiot," she said, as she surveyed his condition. "Who probably needs to sit down."

He chuckled.

Octavia threw her arms around Lincoln next, a bit more forcefully and to Bellamy's slight dismay, they kissed openly in front of him. He wasn't about to stop it, though. Not after their travel and everything leading up to.

Octavia cast her gaze to him. "No complaints, Big Brother?"

Bellamy smirked, and shared a glance between her and Lincoln. "Not this time. I would've died without him," he said, gesturing with a hand in Lincoln's direction. The atmosphere turned serious. "Honestly, O, I don't think you could've found yourself a better man."

His sister smiled. "Who would've thought, near-death experience making you all sentimental. I expected it sooner, what, with how much you almost die."

His smirk deepened but Octavia's eyes suddenly turned a shade darker. "Where's Clarke? And Tyrell?"

Bellamy's relief evaporated, and was instantly replaced with cold, relentless dread. This had been his last hope, before facing the likeliest probability.

"She's not back?" he asked.

Octavia met his eyes, now downcast in fear. "No. She never came back."

Bellamy shook his head, as if trying to understand, to make sense of it or deny it completely. Octavia was asking him what had happened but he couldn't find it in him to answer her. He didn't know what had happened, or what was happening to him now, for that matter. It was a similar feeling he'd had whenever Bellamy found that his sister was in danger, or what he imagined himself to feel to assume her as dead. It was similar in the sense that if felt as if something vital had been stripped from him, something long cemented into a foundation torn out from beneath.

But it was also different, in many ways. Clarke wasn't his blood, but she was his family, produced after months of shared disagreements, a slow-rising friendship, formed in the crucible of war and sacrifice and mutual responsibility. Octavia knew him, but Clarke _understood_ him.

And though he knew what it was like without having her around, had had half a year of it, that didn't equate to this. Because in that time, there was always a promise of return. And now, there wasn't one.

"Bellamy?" Octavia asked, and he met her gaze. She must've seen it in his eyes, whatever this _thing_ was he couldn't explain and regardless of his wounds, she gently wrapped her arms around him.

Bellamy embraced her tightly, his mind swimming as something broke inside him, close to his ribs but worse than his fractured one. It was one of those rare occasions that Bellamy had no idea what to do. Usually, this was when he'd go and ask Clarke her ideas, but the pain doubled when he understood he couldn't do that. And this, to his confusion, set in panic.

He extracted himself from Octavia and held up a hand. "I need a second," he told her, before walking away. She made a comment on his wounds and his safety, but Bellamy couldn't manage to care as he stumbled back out of the entryway, and passed that imposing statue.

He stopped when he was beyond it and closed his eyes.

None of this felt real. It was too distant, too disbelieving.

He bit out a curse. "I was supposed to take the risks, Clarke," he hissed. But he should've known better. He'd assume she would have weighed the chance of getting to him too small to act upon, but she'd found another reason on top of it, to justify her going to the Ice Nation. The armory was down. Their soldiers were in disarray. Clarke had given them their optimum time for war. And yet, Bellamy couldn't fake gratitude. There was pride, but it was murky and weak.

What he really felt couldn't be put into words. There was rage, and grief. There was fear, at the prospect of her not coming back, a prospect that was steadily transforming into a reality that Bellamy wanted nothing more than to push against. Guilt. Regret. And there was that panic he didn't understand. It wasn't the screaming kind that instilled the urge to run inside him. It was the confusing kind of panic, the kind that made him have to question what he'd do without her. What he _was_ without her.

Was he still the man he wished to be, or had it been Clarke, always challenging him to it that made him that way? She'd taught him compassion, what it meant to give someone a second chance.

If she really was gone, had she taken that part of him with her? And worse of all; what sort of man would he become without her?

His hands fisted at his sides as understanding dawned on him, the realization of just how much he'd relied on Clarke throughout their time here, hitting him squarely in the chest. But it was beyond the loss of a friend. This went deeper and Bellamy didn't recognize the void that appeared there inside, screaming not just guilt at him, but regret. And it steadily became louder than the guilt until it was too deafening to distinguish what it was Bellamy regretted.

He just knew that he did.

* * *

The storm delayed Clarke, as she'd anticipated, and she was forced to extend her journey by another few days that quickly turned to a week. It was a practical blizzard she was forced to take cover from, and she took shelter under a tree that offered a small burrow with the snow.

Opposed to the first time she had trekked down this mountain, greatly numb and wounded, her current solitude was starting to become a dangerous thing. The silence made her turn to questions, and wonderments of the others, whether or not they were still alive. The Baneberry seemed to gain weight as the thought flashed through her mind. Would she be forced to tell Indra that Tyrell had died? Or Octavia, that not just Bellamy, but both him and the man she loved-?

No, Clarke shoved that thought away, and sealed it into a box she'd only open if it were proven true. Both Bellamy and Lincoln would die fighting, and they'd fight with everything they had to make it back to Octavia and simply put, Clarke had faith in them.

That didn't, however, mean that she could stop each thread of fear that wove its way through her thoughts, tethering words like _torture_ and _Bellamy_ together. If he were alive, then he wasn't in his best condition and that knowledge put Clarke's mind on another hazardous path, recalling Mount Weather and what was done to him there. But this was the Ice Nation, and she knew forms of torture could vary. It wasn't just a necessity to them, it was a form of entertainment. And Clarke knew they wanted answers, which meant the torture wouldn't have been drawn out. It would've been brutal, worse enough to maim him, but not enough to kill him. And that was only if Lincoln had succeeded in at least getting him _out._

Clarke dropped the thought as fast as she could, switching to ones that brought hope instead of fear. She'd blown up the armory. And now she had a possible way of destroying the Ice Nation, which only added to the benefit of her going after Bellamy. If she could convince herself it wasn't done completely in vain, then there was justice in her actions. And if there was justice, there was a means of forgiveness from those involved.

But that did little to counteract her mounting apprehension as the blizzard cleared and she resumed her trek. Clarke knew that if she returned and neither Lincoln nor Bellamy were back, then it meant they were probably dead. And that bore more weight than the Grounders and Boat People combined.

* * *

Two weeks passed in a blur of snow steadily turning to rain. Clarke moved silently through the trees, feeling as the snow gave way to ground the farther she descended, until she no longer needed her extra jacket and was content with her lighter one. Only once had she nearly run into Ice Scouts, but she'd managed to get away before they'd caught sight of her, and that had been during her first week on the mountain.

But she wasn't up there anymore, and Clarke allowed this small relief to enter, however marginal it was. But the closer she came to Tondc, her fear grew, until it became a throbbing pain in her chest.

 _Please let them be there,_ she silently begged, trying to breathe around the lump of emotion that made it difficult to breathe. _Please._

Already, her instincts were taking over, switching to tactics of what she would do if the worst-case scenario came to pass. But Clarke couldn't focus on that. She wouldn't try and form pitiful words sufficient enough to convey condolences to Octavia. Couldn't even muster up the desire to, because if they were dead, Clarke's grip on this war would slip. Maybe she'd still manage, but it would be a detrimental blow, equal to before the battle as it would be after it. And though this had always been a possibility faced, every day since they'd landed on the ground, Clarke was never more afraid by it than she was now, when Tondc materialized into view.

Her pace slowed but she kept moving, her breathing turning to spurts as the statue neared, until she was standing before it. She met his stony eyes once before passing him, into the entryway and to the doors.

Words of Triangesleng were shouted beyond them and the doors parted, ushering her inside. The village surfaced around her, a welcomed sight after weeks of isolation. Heads dipped to her and many of them stopped, but Clarke was already looking through the growing cluster of Grounders.

Seconds passed and when a familiar face did not appear in the crowd, panic set inside Clarke, as untamable as fire. Her breathing stopped altogether and though she dimly noticed Indra, gazing at her with a look of surprise, she kept looking.

Maybe they really hadn't gotten out. Maybe the hiccup with the bomb had cost them. Or maybe both Tyrell and Lincoln were dead while Bellamy still rotted away in that chamber.

Tears sprung to her eyes and her knees suddenly became shaky as she looked into every face, every face that wasn't his or Lincoln's. _No,_ she thought, as she turned in a slow circle. _No, no, no,-_

"Clarke?"

She whirled around, her heart beating out of her chest as her gaze met a familiar dark one. He looked awful; cheeks sallow with shadows underneath his eyes. His curly hair now fell limp, but it was still Bellamy. And he was alive.

His eyes stared back at her in shock, lips slightly parted in surprise as he took a cautious step forward.

The shaking of her legs grew worse as a torrent of relief crashed over her, but Clarke pushed herself forward, faster until she was running. His arms went around her waist as hers wound around his neck and without even thinking, without even considering the consequences or the reason, Clarke crushed her lips to his.

Bellamy stilled for a moment, just for a single breath. And Clarke thought he was about to pull away, when instead he returned it, with an unrelenting ferocity she hadn't expected. And suddenly, everything around them fell away as they molded together. His hand reached up to cup her cheek and Clarke marveled at the newness of this strange feeling, foreign in its intimacy, yet completely and irrevocably _him._


	20. The Product of Trust

**My longest chapterrrr. Now tell me, Folks. Does this seem to happen too quickly or just right? I love stories that build relationships but I don't like stories that wait until the end of it to happen, you know? Does this build up well? Does it feel like the characters? Oh, and this story will have around...hmm...25 chapters? Yeah. But that could change. (Also bear in mind this is unedited.)**

 **Please read and review!**

Clarke became aware of the people around them as she came back to herself and quickly drew out from Bellamy's embrace. She looked into his stunned gaze and after a moment of thorny silence, he cleared his throat.

"Well," Octavia's voice broke the silence as she blanched at them both. "This day seems just full of surprises."

Clarke scrounged for something to say, crossing her arms over her chest she she broke her gaze from Bellamy's.

She hadn't meant to do that. Actually, it had been exactly what she'd meant to do, but she had no intention of meaning to do that. Didn't even think it through, And already she was wondering if it had been a mistake. But Clarke struggled to form a coherent thought. Her heart was still pounding in her chest and her mind swam. Heat rose to her cheeks as she tried to focus more on the serious issues, such as the fact that the man she'd just kissed had only recently undergone torture.

"How are you?" She asked Bellamy, avoiding his eyes as best she could and then mentally chastising herself for hugging him so forcefully. His shirt hid his entire upper-half but Clarke could see the outline of gauze beneath it, tightly bound around his torso. Then Clarke realized she was staring at his chest and felt her cheeks flame. She looked up at him warily.

It was evident he wasn't comfortable by the furrowing of his brows and the strained expression he wore. But that could've just as easily been from what had just transpired and the thought made her go even more scarlet.

She turned to Octavia and Lincoln, noticing for the first time the absence of their fourth party. "Where's Tyrell?" she asked them.

Lincoln's eyes grew cold and understanding pitted in her stomach as he responded with the imperceptible shake of his head. Guilt stabbed at Clarke but she breathed passed it, taking a moment for the man she hadn't really known, but someone who had sacrificed his life for them. "I'll tell Indra," she said. "But I need all of you in the council room. Now."

As she'd just said it, Indra materialized by her side as they aimed for the council room, the matching the stride with hers.

"So you are not dead," the Grounder Chief noted, and Clarke could gauge no look of relief from her features.

"I'm aware."

"Tyrell is," Indra added and Clarke nearly pulled to a halt but waited until they had reached the council room before offering her sympathies, however unaccepting Indra would be of them.

"He fell in battle," she said. "An honorable death."

"The honor wasn't dying in battle," Clarke murmured, entering the dark room and standing before the expansive table. Her eyes met Indra's. "The honor was sacrificing his life to give the others a chance at theirs."

Indra raised her chin in defiance of the correction, but Clarke stared her down, before turning her attention back on the others. Octavia and Lincoln stood on the opposite side of the table, while Bellamy remained beside her and she was made perfectly aware of the heat emanating off him. She swallowed, hoping the dimmed light shielded her crimson cheeks.

"You should rest," she told him, casting a glance in his direction.

"I'm fine, " he replied in a gruff voice. "This is more important."

She didn't bother arguing with him and turned back to the others. "I'm sorry if the bomb was the reason for Tyrell," she said, exchanging a look between Lincoln and Bellamy. "The fuse was put out. I had to go back and restart it."

"You should've just let it go," Bellamy said and to her surprise, he sounded almost angry.

But Clark shook her head. "I couldn't. Not if it meant getting you guys out. But it was actually a good thing it happened. I met a woman on the mountain, the real leader of the Boat People."

"Luna," Lincoln breathed and Clarke nodded.

"She provided me with some Intel, and a possible means of ending this war. When this starts, I want all, if not the majority, focus on the Queen. I want to know where she is. Where she's been spotted, if she has. Killing her may cause an automatic ceasefire."

"Uh, ' _may_?'" Octavia asked.

Clarke pursed her lips, but didn't allow her voice to falter. "Yeah. We need some sort of strategy. Just trying to kill as many soldiers as we can is probably not the best method, considering they have more men and more civilians they can force into combat. Along with prisoners they're still keeping inside."

"We saw them," Bellamy whispered, his tone going dark at the recollection.

"Those are Luna's people," she said. "And for her Intel, I exchanged it with the promise of getting them out. Or trying to."

"As if we didn't have enough to compensate for," Indra hissed, glaring in Clarke's direction.

She ignored it. "I'd like to avoid slaughtering innocent people this time," Clarke told her. "I've been to the Ice Nation twice, imprisoned for months, and only caught sight of the Ice Queen once. She's protected, and for a greater reason than her just being their Leader."

"Why would they give themselves an Achilles' Heel, though?" Lincoln inquired, sill keeping his arm around Octavia.

Clarke stared passed him, as if trying to come to that conclusion herself. "I don't know. But you have one yourselves, otherwise you wouldn't have insisted on not fighting without a Locum. If anything, I think it's done to remind yourselves of your own mortality." She turned her eyes on Octavia. "How has training been?"

"Better," she answered instantly. "Most can hit moving targets now."

"They should all be able to move hitting targets by now," Clarke said. "We can't afford any guns to those with poor aim."

"These people aren't used to guns, Clarke," Octavia said, her voice slightly defensive. "They aren't going to become sharpshooters in a few weeks' time."

Clarke shook her head. "They're going to have to be, even if that means forcing them to carry their guns around all day and night to become comfortable with it. Our guns are back to our advantage and just because the Nation's armory is gone doesn't mean they haven't buried a few firearms somewhere else."

She turned back to the rest of them, each pairs of eyes staring back at her. "This war is coming any day now. I want more guards stationed around the perimeter. I want civilians in a protected area. And if there's still time, I want the children evacuated to Mount Weather."

"My people will not-" Indra began, but Clarke was finished with these disagreements.

For the first time in months, Clarke's voice turned heated as she spoke at Indra, "Your Commander appointed me as Locum. That means my authority is above yours and I will do what I think is best for the Grounders, because they are no longer just your people, Indra. They've become mine, too." A warning rang inside her voice. "And if there's still time, I want the children evacuated."

Indra's eyes narrowed in contempt, but she said nothing.

"Evacuation would be safest in the evening. I want Scouts fanned out between here and Mount Weather. Octavia and Lincoln," Clarke added, "I would prefer both of you to accompany them."

Clarke couldn't visibly see it, but she could tell Octavia approved of the mission. She had protected her for not only her sake, but Bellamy's as well. Now that he was back, Clarke needed Octavia for this one. She was a skilled fighter and frankly, the last person Clarke would ever deign to challenge to a duel.

"Indra," she faced again. "I want you to spread to the guards of the Queen. Do not tell them of the possible ceasefire. We'll lose all organization and everyone will just turn bloodthirsty. Just tell them to be aware of her at all times, when this war finally comes."

Indra didn't audibly argue, but Clarke knew the woman did not like being ordered around by her. The feeling was mutual.

"I," she added. "Have something personal to take care of."

Octavia cast a look between her and Bellamy. "Good luck with that, Brother," she said.

Clarke took a slow breath. "Not that kind of personal, Octavia. I meant that I'm going to pay my condolences to Tyrell's family."

Octavia's voice turned dubious. "Oh. Then I'll amend that to good luck, Clarke."

That unhelpful reminder made Clarke sensitized to Bellamy, still standing beside her. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Clarke glanced at him intermittently, still feeling his hands on her back, the impression of his fingers still cupping her cheek. "I want you to rest," she said, though she knew he would hate it. "I'll look you over when I'm finished." Clarke stilled, somewhat mortified at how that sounded and quickly added, "your wounds. To make sure there's no infection."

She left before he could say anything and doubted, much to her appall, that the redness in her cheeks, however dark the room, could no longer go unnoticed.

* * *

At the sight of a little boy with tufts of curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, Clarke's heart fell like lead through her chest. Tyrell had left behind a son, not five years old, and an ache resonated deep inside her. An older woman had taken to care for him, whether due to pity or duty, Clarke didn't know, though she suspected the latter.

As for the boy, it was evident he missed his father and Clarke could sympathize with that, the wound her own father's death had caused throbbing as if newly opened.

Condolences to a child were a little less condoling and Clarke settled for staying with him, first waving until he grew comfortable around her.

His name was Ronin and from what the woman had told her, it meant Warrior. And though he was young, Clarke thought the name fitting. Warriors didn't necessarily pertain to physical strength, but also to passion and courage, and she saw it in the way he smiled, even though he knew his father wouldn't be coming home.

Afterwards, Clarke left him to the care of the woman again, before returning back the way she'd come. She stopped in front of Bellamy's hut, close to her own, and felt a twinge of uncertainty go through her. She wouldn't put this off, and she wouldn't avoid it like a coward.

With a deep breath, she knocked before easing her way inside, lit with a few dull torches and his own lantern.

Bellamy sat on his cot, head in his hands but stood up when she entered, eyes widening slightly.

They lapsed into an awkward silence but Clarke was determined to appear as blasé as possible, stepping forward with little hesitancy. "I want to make sure there's no infection," she repeated her earlier words and finally met his gaze full-on.

He shook his head. "You don't have to. I think it would've set in by now."

"Open wounds can be exposed to infection before they close," she answered. "And I need you in the best condition possible."

Bellamy looked as if he wanted to argue, but instead he shrugged off his shirt, revealing his gauze-covered chest. Not wanting him to unravel it on his own, Clarke came forward until she was almost as close as she'd been when she'd first arrived, but pushed passed her discomfort.

"You don't have to help with this," he said, and it struck a memory inside Clarke, of her being the one with the wounds; of her being the one refusing the help.

Just as he'd ignored her then, she ignored him now and began unwinding the gauze, stained pink the further she pulled, until his bare chest was exposed to her. Horrible cuts marred the skin there and Clarke found it hard to look at them. The flesh was still pink, but the wounds weren't very inflamed. She lifted her finger to one, careful not to hurt him, but still having to make sure she wasn't missing any symptoms.

"Have you felt nauseated as all?" she asked, going from leader to doctor in an instant.

She felt his breath just above her. "No."

"Dizziness?"

"Not anymore."

She lifted her hand to his forehead, his curly hair falling over her knuckles. Her eyes met his again, and she saw the wariness there, and took a step back. "You feel fine. Did Octavia send for supplies from Mount Weather?"

Bellamy nodded, pulling out a new wrap of clean gauze from a small box. "Yeah."

She nodded, returning to his side just enough to take the gauze from him. "She made a good call," Clarke said as she unwrapped the package and held the end of the gauze out for Bellamy to hold.

"She told me you forced her to stay here," he said and Clarke couldn't tell if his voice sounded accusing or simply matter-of-fact.

But then he scoffed. "And also said you threatened to tie her down until you were far enough away."

Clarke nodded, as she wound the cloth around his torso, a little too carefully. "I did."

"Thank you."

His words made Clarke look up and his face was suddenly right there, so close she could glimpse the flecks of black in his irises. The air felt as if it had been punched through her and she looked down again, finishing the last part of the gauze and tying it off.

"Clarke," he whispered as she stepped away. "I think we need to talk."

She'd already decided that she wouldn't avoid discussing it with him. He was the one who deserved an answer.

Clarke nodded, albeit somewhat hesitantly. "Yeah. Look, that was an accident. I didn't...mean to do that," she scrambled. "I was...scared that were dead and I just reacted when I saw you." Her explanation fell flatly, and she mentally cringed at the poor construction of it.

She was very aware of her voice as Bellamy had a way of reading her that made her exceedingly uncomfortable right now. It didn't help that Clarke still struggled with what she was feeling, already dubbing her actions a monumental mistake. But if it truly had been, why didn't the rest of her echo her doubt?

Bellamy's eyes looked haunted as he stared back at her. "We were thinking the same," he said. "That you were dead. When Lincoln and I came back and you weren't here..." he shook his head in almost incredulity. "I was scared, too. Really scared. Clarke, I haven't felt that scared since Mount Weather."

"Maybe..." she shrugged, grappling for a response. "Maybe it's because it was the first time we had to face the reality of one of us without the other."

He nodded, pursing his lips. But then he shook his head again, reaching behind him to his shirt and pulling it on. "I don't...what happened?" he asked when he had. "I know this probably isn't the best time to be talking about this, what with a war just around the corner and all, but I think we both know the risk of putting anything off."

It was her turn to nod in agreement. "I don't know either," she said honestly.

"Was it just something that we did?" he asked. "I mean saying hello to the person you thought was dead isn't exactly an ice breaker. I think you're right; we both just reacted in that situation."

Clarke looked at the ground, and crossed her arms over her chest. "So that's what it was."

He ran a hand down his face, as if struggling just as much as she was. Clarke felt his eyes boring into her, forcing hers back up to meet them.

"No," Bellamy said. "No, I have to ask because of what it was like for me. And it didn't feel weird, Clarke. It felt...kind of normal."

A small part of her was relieved that at least she wasn't the only one who had thought so. But it was simultaneously what unnerved her further. "I'm not really sure what that means." She said, half dreading his response, though she didn't understand why.

He deliberated, staring back at her with those dark, molten brown eyes and Clarke felt her heart inexplicably quicken.

He scoffed. "I don't know. Or maybe I do." He gestured at her entirety with an expression of utter disbelief. "You're Clarke."

She smirked. "And you're Bellamy. Good, now we've clearly established who is who."

He rubbed his left temple. "No, I just...I didn't see this coming. Out of all the girls down here I thought this would happen with, no offence, but you were at the very bottom of the list."

Clarke hadn't known what she wanted to hear, but it certainly hadn't been that.

"That's a distance away from a compliment," she said.

Bellamy sighed, crossing his arms until they mirrored each other in their stances. "I'm not trying to insult you. I'm trying to explain why I didn't recognize this sooner."

Clarke looked at him, eyebrows drawing up in confusion, as heat rose to her cheeks again. "Recognize what?"

He tossed up his hands angrily. "That you...piss me off. A lot. When we first came here, I know we butted heads and that mostly my fault-"

" _Mostly?_ "-

"But then you became someone I started to trust. You turned from a moral nag into a voice in my head that still nagged every time I had to make a decision, because I had to consult you first. You never told me what I wanted to hear. You told me what was hard and what no one else would. And yes, Clarke, I cared about you."

He faltered somewhat at this point, as Clarke stared at him, completely unaware of what direction this was going in.

That strained expression returned to him. "But it wasn't until I thought you were dead that I realized how much that was. I rely on you, yeah, but just as much as I do on the battlefield as I do off it. And I have never had that. In the Ark, there was just me and Octavia I had to look after. I called the shots, I made all the decisions. But that ended the second we came down and you told me not to open the door."

Clarke watched him carefully, scrutinizing the way he was looking at her but for once, she didn't recognize the emotion she glimpsed there. "So what are you saying?" she asked.

He stopped and took a deep breath, looking down before meeting her gaze again. He seemed to come to some inner resolution then. "I'm saying that I just...want to try something."

Before Clarke could stop him, or perhaps she simply didn't try to, Bellamy was pulling her roughly to him. Then his lips were on hers, unyielding and insistent and Clarke struggled for thought, but it was quickly lost, vanishing as everything else around them did. Somehow, her hands had made it up until they were clinging to the back of Bellamy's neck and his were tightening around her waist. But no sooner had it started when a second later, they broke apart, both breathing raggedy, their breaths mingling together in the small space between them.

Clarke couldn't bring her eyes to him this time as he spoke.

"I think," he began after a moment, swallowing loudly. "That that answers my question."

Clarke didn't attempt to reply; everything inside her felt electrocuted, pulsing, and so very alive.

"Wow, speechless," he said, in a voice that was still hoarse."I can't tell whether that's good or bad coming from you."

Clarke cleared her throat. "I..."

She what? None of this was making much sense to her. "How is this..." She raised her eyes to his. "When...?" But then she retracted and took a step back. "No. This is not the time for...that. We are in the middle of a war, Bellamy. Getting involved would be-"

"Clarke, we're already involved," Bellamy deadpanned. "I think we've always known that."

She gawked at him. "What about your list? Your extensive list that you just said I was at the very bottom of?"

He rolled his eyes. "Please. Don't tell me I wasn't the last on yours."

"I don't make lists."

"Imagine yourself back on day one."

She shook her head. "I was too busy trying to keep us alive."

"Exactly," he agreed. "We both were. That's what we've always done. Together."

Clarke pursed her lips, and turned from him for a moment. But Bellamy just forced her back towards him. "Fine, I'll just ask you this; do you feel anything? Like... _that._ For me?"

Her heartbeat still ricocheted in her ears, and she tried to speak but stopped herself, beginning differently. "I never...I never looked at you in that way. I haven't looked at _anyone_ in that way, not since Finn." Her voice turned darker at the mention.

Bellamy took a step closer and Clarke thought he was going to kiss her again, but he didn't. "I'm not Finn, Clarke," he said. "This wouldn't end in one of us killing the other."

"You don't know that," she snapped and then withdrew. "I sent you into Mount Weather. You nearly died just weeks ago. And that, _that_ was on me. If you'd died, that would've been _on me_. And I was prepared to accept that. But now? When an a war is literally knocking on our door, you want to do _this_?"

His gaze intensified and he took a step closer. "Maybe it's because of the war I want to do this. I'm not even sure what _this_ is. But I do know that tomorrow isn't a guarantee, Clarke. Our lives aren't even a guarantee, not in this world. And if we do lose, and only one of us makes it out alive, I don't want there to be regrets. I know what that's like, when I thought you were dead, and regret isn't the same as guilt. Forgiveness doesn't ease it. Because you can't go back and change the past."

"But we don't know what this war will bring," she shot back. "I was forced to turn on someone I cared about already, Bellamy. I can't...I _won't_ do that again."

"You had no choice."

"And that's exactly the reason!" She said, her voice raising to nearly a shout. "They captured you once. What if that happens again and my only option is the one I had with Finn?"

Bellamy put his hands on her shoulders, gazing intently back at her. "Then don't take it."

Tears pricked her eyes but she didn't look away from his. "I will. I know I will. Because I'd rather you dead than having to endure what they'd do to you."

His hands moved up to cup her face, hesitantly at first, as if it were a foreign action, but it soon adapted into something familiar. "I know you think that maybe we'd save each other pain, pretending nothing happened and just going back to the way we were. But the truth is, Clarke, we already care about each other. And nothing we do will make that possible choice, however unlikely, any easier on us."

She took a shaky breath. He was being perfectly reasonable, and he was right, but now, whatever this was slowly becoming, it offered her something to lose. This was different than it had been with Finn. Finn had been a safe place in a new world. Somewhere she'd found reassurance in. But Bellamy was a marker to home. Where he was, that place felt complete. Without him there, it seemed bare, a vacancy that had steadily grown more noticeable the closer they'd become over the months.

Mount Weather had united them in a decision that only they could understand the burden of. And in a twisted way, The Ice Nation had strengthened it, as they had both been the only Sky people taken, and the only prisoners to escape.

She gazed back at him, gauging everything she saw there, but it was fathomless. "How would...this work?" She asked after a few moments of silence had passed.

Bellamy released his hold on her and shrugged. "Well, we'll argue. We'll disagree. But we'll stay together. It's not like I'm suggesting a lifelong commitment here, Clarke. I'm still trying to understand this. But I think if you hadn't...done what you did today, I would've. Sooner or later."

She sighed, trying to wrap her mind around it. "We're talking about you and me," she said lamely.

He let out a sound of disbelief. "Clarke, we've been down every road together except this one. Co-Leaders, commanders, both of us just being...us. maybe we won't really know what this is until after the war. But we also don't know if we'll get an after."

Clarke drew her arms back around herself again. "Is it the war that's making you feel this way or do you honestly feel it yourself? Are we just going to go back to how we were when it's over? Providing we survive?"

He ran a the back of his neck. "Knowing that we may die within days does give its own push, but I'm going off of what it felt like when I thought you were gone. That's always a possibility with us, and it isn't like we haven't thought the other dead before, but it didn't feel the same way. It didn't give me this regret I couldn't even name, because I didn't know what it was I was regretting. Maybe it was always leading up to this. Just neither of us saw it coming."

Clarke looked at him. Really looked at him. Yes, this was the man who had made it difficult in the beginning. This was the man who had challenged her patience, her tolerance, and everything in between. But it was also the man who had, since the start if it all, been by her side. The one who had remained there, through battle after battle and they'd had their fair share of impossible decisions, leaving the other behind, risking each other's lives to protect the rest of their people.

But this was also the man who she'd watch inspire dozens of others; who had helped turn a band of Sky people into Grounders. She knew his heart as well as she did her own, and the leadership, the _honor,_ that was written there.

 _This_ was Bellamy.

"Try that again," Clarke suddenly said, surprising even herself.

His eyes bore into hers and she still couldn't understand the emotion she saw in them. Bellamy had always been good with closing himself off when he wanted, but he'd stopped doing that. And Clarke couldn't really recall the last time he'd tried to.

Bellamy moved with caution and unlike just minutes before, didn't kiss her so forcefully. This time, it was slow and languid, gentle yet intimate and sparks of heat prickled Clarke's skin just as he deepened the kiss until gentleness became harder to manage, wounds or not.

With Finn, moments like this had felt comfortable, a place of escape.

But this was not comfortable. This was months of trust and faith and sacrifice steadily built between them cementing into something she couldn't name. It was a force, a promise, a feeling both new and undeniably familiar. It felt _right._

She wasn't sure who stepped back first, but one of them did, yet their arms were still locked around each other. Clarke's breathing was hard and she felt heat color her cheeks as she placed a hand carefully over his chest and felt the loud pounding of his heart thundering beneath her palm.

In spite of herself, Clarke couldn't help but smile. "Nervous much?"

The corner of Bellamy's lip pulled up as they fell back into their usual tones. "Around the princess? No."

"And to think, you almost passed off as charming," but Clarke grew serious again. "You know that if this happens-"

"Clarke, it's already happened," He interrupted. "Unless you want to jump in your time machine to when you came back and give me a handshake instead."

Her smirk returned. "This could just make us want to try even that much more to protect the other," Clarke said. "And I know what that brought last time. We have to keep our focus in the same place."

Bellamy shrugged noncommittally. "It's a good thing I'm your second, then."


	21. If

**The war is coming. Dun, dun, dunnnn. I'm excited or it. And I'm also glad you guys liked the previous chapter, because I was struggling with that one. I love me some Bellarke fluff, but I also like realistic fluff, and realistic not-so-fluff because this is Bellamy and Clarke and arguing is kind of a facet to their relationship. Please read and review! (And any scenes you'd like to be included, I may take suggestions.)**

Bellamy was pacing his room, his mind blank as he thought over what had happened, what was in the process of happening, when the door opened and Octavia stepped inside.

He paused as she entered, meeting her eyes with his own glazed ones.

"So..." she started, easing into the question as she lingered by the entrance, feigning nonchalantness. "You and Clarke, huh?"

Bellamy wasn't anxious to put any sort of label on it. He didn't know which term sufficiently encompassed whatever this was. All he knew was that something was there. It ran deeper than friendship and was bolder than some simple attraction. But he just smirked at his sister, and the subtle disbelief that was woven beneath her words. "Does that surprise you?"

Octavia shrugged, coming over to him and taking a seat on his cot. "Honestly? Not in the least."

He looked at her in confusion. "You mean to say you actually saw this as a possibility? With me and Clarke?"

She cracked a smile at his evident incredulity and let out and exasperated sigh. "You're not as smart as you like to think you are, Big Brother."

He smirked. "A heads up would've been nice."

She shrugged, but leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her expression turned serious. "I actually assumed you knew. I'ts why I thought you let her leave Camp Jaha in the first place."

He came over and sat down beside her, his gaze falling to his hands. "I let her go because she wanted to go."

"You let her go because you knew you couldn't stop her. You never _wanted_ her to."

"What does that matter anymore? She went. She came back," he let out an angered breath. "If I'd known what was going to happen would I have threatened her like she threatened you? There's no question. But any one of us would've done that. It didn't mean I felt something then."

Octavia shook her head demeaningly, as if scorning a child. "You know, you and Clarke have gotten so good at seeing the hidden things, you miss the painfully obvious ones. Maybe you haven't realized this yet, but in one sense, Clarke is just like you. She's also the complete opposite of you. It's probably why you guys nearly killed each other from the start." Octavia smiled. "Same heart with different reasons but one motive; to keep us all alive."

"Or maybe on the ground, we just became that way," he said.

She scoffed. "Yeah. It made you less intolerable and had Clarke go from Ark Princess to leader of the Grounders."

Bellamy arched an eyebrow at his sister. " _Less_ intolerable?"

"When it comes to girls, yeah," Octavia deadpanned. "And I've seen you with a lot of them, but they never did anything for you. And the one girl that did, was the one you never even had to be with for her to do it."

The knowledge of that sunk into him, slowly. He hadn't thought of it beneath that light before. "That's probably because I didn't try to be someone I wasn't with her," he said, and then cast her a rueful smile. "However intolerable of a person that was."

Octavia put her hand over his, her fingers once soft, now rough and callused like his. "I didn't mind him so much. Some of the others were scared of you, though. They saw you as a leader, and when that went to your head, Clarke was there to remind you to ease up. Her threats piss me off a lot, but for you," Octavia lifted her shoulders. "She's fitting."

"It's not like we're doing much about it, O," Bellamy said. This conversation was beginning to feel surreal to him, with his sister not only commenting on his personal life, but approving of it as well. "We just agree that we see something there."

That mocking expression resurfaced to her features. "It's not just some crush, Bell. Of all people, you should know the difference by now."

"I do," He said, almost harshly, still struggling to place exactly what he was feeling. "I told Clarke I didn't want to have any regrets. But there's a difference between not wanting regrets and rushing into things too quickly. I'm not going to rush this just because of a war, and because I also don't want it to be my motive for acting on it."

She lets out a quiet breath. "Hey, it's your love life. But, Bell? Just..."

Bellamy eyed her skeptically. "Just, what?"

Octavia patted his hand once before standing to leave, but kept her eyes trailed on her brother. "Just don't screw it up."

* * *

The woods were silent and the sky held its tongue, the air devoid of any breeze. A chill trickled down Clarke's spine as she studied the sylvan surroundings from the gateway, the calmness of it unsettling.

She had doubts of Ice Scouts being nearby. Even a nation built beneath the ground could lose their footing and Clarke was sure their loss of the armory had done that much. She thought she'd had to wait for a war, but now she was beginning to rethink that plan.

A scowl marred her brows as she gazed in front of her, deep in thought.

Clarke didn't like the feeling of waiting. Didn't like the sensation as if she'd been backed into a corner and had no alternative but to wait. She was still letting the Ice Nation make its move, and when evening began to bruise the horizon, Clarke began forming a new plan.

Octavia and Lincoln would be leaving soon, after they'd been given the clear earlier today, but the image of defenseless kids wandering the wilderness made Clarke's chest clench in uncertainty. But Tondc wouldn't become any safer for them, and Clarke couldn't protect victims on a battleground.

When a deep purple started to bleed over the sky, Clarke returned inside the doors, to where Octavia and Lincoln were preparing themselves. She had a gun strapped to her back and an assortment of knives probably hidden among her attire, while Lincoln clutched his bow and a decent sized blade in his other hand.

Clarke casts a wary glance at the cart stationed behind them, holding nearly a dozen young kids.

"Don't bother trying to take any prisoners if you run into trouble," Clarke said to Octavia, her eyes still on the children, particularly one boy, with bright eyes and curly hair. "Kill on sight."

From her peripheral vision, Clarke saw Octavia nod.

She glanced away from the boy just as someone came up alongside her, his presence sending an uncontrollable ways of heat over her skin.

Clarke gave him the time to hug his sister before calling his attention. "I'm done waiting for an attack," she told Bellamy, as they stepped away from the others and to the privacy of the council room. This small place was beginning to offer Clarke solace. A place of reasoning. A place of action.

She stepped inside and Bellamy followed closely after. He shut the door behind. "I don't like it, either," he said. "The tension in this camp is making everyone anxious."

Clarke nodded. "Which is why I want to change plans. I want to move against the Ice Nation before they move against us."

Bellamy contemplated her words, keeping his eyes leveled with her own. "That could be what they're waiting for," he replied. "We could walk straight into their trap."

"Or we give them the time to come up with a new one," Clarke said and her shoulders sagged. "Its just a much a risk as there is waiting for them to make the first move. Right now they're weakened. And this is the best time as any to strike before they get organized again. If they haven't already."

He studied her and Clarke could see him drawing his own conclusions. "Are you thinking of blitzing them from behind?"

"Mount Weather is prepared for an attack, but they can't attack first. I want a mobile group, especially if we need to go after the Queen. I doubt she'll be battling on the front lines."

He didn't voice it, but Clarke could see that Bellamy agreed with her, at least this far. "Who were you planning to have in this group? You'd need the best sharpshooters."

She'd already considered that. "Which is why I'll need you and Lincoln."

"Lincoln doesn't shoot."

"Guns," Clarke corrected. "But he's good with a bow and I'd rather have a reliable archer than someone who can't aim with a gun properly."

"I've been overseeing the training sessions with Octavia," Bellamy said. "There's two Grounders, Koma and Inyo. They're a good shot."

Clarke mentally added them to the list. "Good. That makes six of us."

Bellamy's eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. "Who're the other two?"

Clarke tried to act as cool-headed as she could, when she said, "Octavia and myself."

She expected Bellamy to protest. Vocally. But he remained quiet, still surveying her features until the intensity brought heat to her cheeks. "I don't want Octavia in the middle of that," he finally said, his tone dropping a few degrees and she could hear the second implication in his voice. _I don't want_ you _in the middle of that._

"I know," Clarke replied. And she did. "But Octavia is good. She knows how to shoot and she's a skillful fighter."

"Clarke," Bellamy's tone rang in warning.

"I can't assemble just a decent team, Bellamy," she said, sidestepping the warning. "I need the best. And whether you think so or not, Octavia is one of the best. If you don't want her with us, that's your call. But I promise you, Octavia will not sit idly on the sidelines. She fought our battle with the Grounders, and with the Mountain Men. I know you want to protect her, but Octavia has a right to fight in this war, just like the rest of us."

Clarke saw the disapproval in his eyes, and underneath it, the subtle glimmer of fear. "Lincoln will watch out for her," he said bluntly.

Clarke stepped forward and though this still felt strange, still felt different like new ground, she placed her hand over his chest, just as she'd done the other day. "And if, at some point in this, Bellamy, you have to make a choice between me and your sister, I want you to pick Octavia."

She didn't know if that would be his decision regardless, but Clarke wanted to make it clear that it was okay if it was. That it was what she wanted herself.

Bellamy stared at her, lips parted slightly in surprise, and for a moment, he didn't speak. Suddenly, he drew in a sharp breath and his eyes turned hard. "I never figured you as a cruel person, Clarke."

That stung, but Clarke didn't move away from him and she lifted her hand from his chest to his cheek. "I wouldn't ask for Octavia if I didn't think there was someone better fit for this. But there isn't. And I want to know that if we're put in a position that you have to choose between the two of us to save, I don't want you to agonize over it."

He turned away from her, pulling out of her grasp and shook his head in bewilderment. "You're giving me your permission." He said it as if it were an accusation, but Clarke dismissed it. "I'm giving you an order."

Bellamy scoffed dryly. "I _won't_ be put in that position."

Clarke took a calming breath, trying to defuse his anger. "I don't want you to be. Which is precisely why I'm ordering it."

He stared back at her in disbelief, hands clenched tightly at his sides. He was deathly calm, emotions controlled but boiling just beneath the surface. He smiled but there was no humor in it. "My own personal lever."

Clarke shook her head, grabbing at his hand. He tried to pull out of it, but she gripped it firmly in her own. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Bellamy. How is this any different then when we were talking about killing each other to stop us from being tortured?"

"How is this different?" He asked coldly. "This isn't you saving Finn from pain by killing him, Clarke. This isn't us flooding people with radiation to save our own. This is you, pitting me against two people I care about. And to you, it seems like an easy choice."

Clarke hadn't intended to have this turned into an argument. She thought he would've been somewhat accepting of it, but she hadn't counted on this sort of reaction. "None of this is easy," she said. "I just don't want you to feel guilty in making that choice if you ever have to."

Bellamy's expression turned bitter. "And am I supposed to thank you for that?"

Clarke grappled for the right response. "No. I'm telling you, as my Second in Command, picking Octavia is what _I_ want. Not only what I think _you_ want."

His eyes lingered on her face, and in the failing light, his dark eyes now seemed black. "Right," he nodded curtly. "You've made that clear. I'll inform Inyo and Koma," he added, extracting himself completely from her and turning away.

Clarke hesitated. "Bellamy?"

He raised a hand, as if to ward her off. "Save it, Clarke. I get it. You're the Commander after all."

The heat of his words burned like a slap to the cheek, but she let him go, staring after him until he disappeared through the door and the coming night swallowed him whole.


	22. Who We Once Were

**I really like this chapter. I'm having major Bellarke feelings right now. One thing I don't like in romance stories is when the characters depend on sexual tension to keep the love interest going, and that just kind of grosses me out. Like, no, can we have something of substance between these two charcters without having to rely on _that?_ Because I honestly wouldn't see Clarke and Bellamy like that. Does that make any sense? Well, anyway, next chapter! **

Clarke counted down the hours nervously, trying to suppress unwanted images of hurting children being led through shadows. She knew it had been the safest call to make, sending the youngest to Mount Weather, but that did nothing to quench the fear gnawing on her insides.

In addition, uncertainty accompanied it, at the prospect of having to speak with Bellamy. Clarke would not enter a war when they were in a disagreement and she urged herself to fix it. But she was still unsure of why Bellamy had reacted the way they did. She just wanted him to protect his sister, even if that meant jeaprodizing Clarke's safety because she would not make him choose her over Octavia; because she knew that if he did, that choice would eat at him until there was nothing left.

 _"I never figured you as a cruel person, Clarke."_

And this was her, not being cruel.

Clarke tightened her arms over herself, the fire before her doing nothing to ease the chill. It was late and she knew she'd benefit from sleep, but she couldn't bring herself to close her eyes until they received word the children had arrived safely. Until then, Clarke stayed where she was, beneath a blanket of stars and before a dancing flame.

* * *

 _He was back in the control room, standing in front of an assortment of screens, each holding different pictures than the last._

 _P_ _eople. His people, strung up in a cold room, mouths agape in silent screams. The Mountain Men's people, pouring into the Mess Hall, with the elderly and children alike._

 _His hand hovered above a lever and Bellamy knew what it did, as he stared back at the screens._ _So many faces. So many lives._

 _He waited for his sister to appear before the screen just as he knew she would and a moment later, Octavia did. Like the countless times before, she was forced to the ground by one of the men in the Mess Hall. Bellamy watched, that familiar anger and desperation bombarding him, compelled to watch in helplessness._

 _"My sister," he thought. "My responsibility."_ _He lowered his fingers to the lever._

 _But then the other screens blinked out, all except for the one holding his sister's image. The closest screen to it sparked back to life, no longer containing the pictures of his people or the Mountain Men. This one simply held the face of a woman, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes staring back at him. Beside her flickered something slick and black, pressed hard to her temple._

 _Clarke. With a gun at her head._

 _His hand on the lever stilled, and he gazed back at her in confusion. This wasn't how it was meant to happen. This was nothing like before._

 _Her lips moved, and though Bellamy knew there wasn't a speaker, her voice spoke through to him. "If you ever have to choose between me and your sister," she whispered, tears collecting in her eyes. "I want you to choose Octavia."_

 _Bellamy sucked in a painful breath. That wasn't how this went; none of it was right. He looked back to his sister, her body pushed against the ground and his body, stilled, paralyzed. No, he couldn't decide this. He couldn't._ _He_ couldn't _._

 _"Do it, Bellamy," Clarke told him._

 _But he shook his head. "There has to be another way."_

 _"Octavia will die," Clarke said and Bellamy could barely hear her over the sound of his heartbeat, slamming against his chest and pounding in his ears_ _._

 _"Enough of the self-sacrificing, Clarke!" He barked at her, but the words sounded strained, like a noose slowly tightening around his throat. "Now's not the time to just give up. You don't get to do that." She could've knocked the gun away from her, could've tried, but she didn't. Clarke remains resolute, as still and immobile as a statue._

 _"I need you alive, Clarke," he told her, almost pleadingly. "I need you both alive." He slammed his other hand against the counter, pain radiating up his hand. "Is that too much to ask for? If anyone should die here, it should be me. Pick_ me _."_

 _But Clarke acted as if she hadn't heard him and he tried to pull his hand away from the lever, but it was as if his fingers were cemented there, his flesh fused to its cold grip. "No," he pulled against it, but it was useless. Bellamy looked back to Clarke and saw a single tear spill over and down her cheek._

 _"Your sister," she breathed. "Your responsibility."_

 _The lever beneath his hand suddenly moved, and he had no control over it, even as Bellamy tried to pry it back up. But it didn't budge until a red light flared, signaling the flood of radiation._

 _"No," he gasped, staring between Clarke and Octavia._

 _When nothing happened in the next instant, Bellamy nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it would be okay and for one perfect moment, he allowed himself to believe it, as he waited for Clarke to reappear beside himself; waited for the weapon by her head to fall along with the person that held it._

 _But then a single gunshot sounded, and Bellamy saw a splash of red before all screens turned off and he was left in the darkness_.

* * *

Octavia and Lincoln returned a few hours before dawn, looking weary and spent, but alive with no difficulties to report.

For once, Clarke had no response for good news. Gratification and pure, ardent relief poured through her to an intoxicating degree. The children were safe. Nothing of in her worst imaginings had come true.

With that weight off her, it left one last thing to take care of, and content with the first half of pressing issues, Clarke stood and made her way towards Bellamy's hut, but faltered as she neared it until she stopped before the door completely.

She didn't like the idea of waking him up, not while he was still recovering from his wounds. He needed rest more than anyone inside this camp, and Clarke started to take a step back when the door suddenly swung open, revealing Bellamy, hair messy and mused. His undershirt clung to his skin, and his breathing sounded uneven as his eyes met hers, and subtle reassurance seemed to pool there.

Clarke scrutinized him and took a few cautious steps forward, but he was the one who closed the gap, his rough hands going to her shoulders. His eyes roved over her face, as if inspecting it for something she couldn't see, and she looked up at him in concern. "Are you okay?" she asked.

His gaze fell to hers and he seemed to suddenly deflate. Bellamy took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. Fine." He seemed to want to say something else, but his attention fell to somewhere behind them. "Are they back yet?"

Clarke's eyes narrowed at the sound of his irregular breaths, but relayed the success of the trip. "They're both okay," she told him, unable to keep the relief from her voice. "Everyone's okay. I was planning to speak with you after I received word. I think we should talk."

His eyes fell back to hers and he gestured towards his open door. She followed him as they walked into his small hut, and Bellamy closed the door behind. He ran a hand through his hair and over his forehead, at the beads of sweat that had gathered there.

Clarke watched him, hesitating a moment before she opted to say something. "Look, I get that you don't like the idea of something happening to either Octavia or me, but I needed you to know what I want under those circumstances," she said, somewhat hurriedly.

"I know." His gaze was still fixed on hers, as if he was scared to look away. "I overreacted. It's just...Clarke, the way you said it." His expression grew distant. "It was like you expected I'd do it anyway."

She stared at him, and took a step forward. "But wouldn't you?"

Bellamy tugged another hand through his hair. "I'll always protect Octavia," he said. "However old she gets. And I'll agree to it, if it comes to that. But you need to know it's not a decision made by majority vote. You're as much a part of me as my sister is, so don't believe it would hurt less to lose you in her place."

Understanding dawned on her and she stared, glassy-eyed at him. So this was his objections, not that he didn't agree with her, but that he didn't agree with the reason behind it.

He came up to her and brought a hand to the crown of her head, where her temple was. His thumb caressed the skin there, lightly, an action far too gentle for Bellamy Blake. He stared at it for a heartbeat until his gaze drew down to hers again.

Clarke's heart quickened and sudden emotion tickled her throat, making it difficult to speak.

"And so long as we're on this cheerful topic, I expect the same from you," he added, and a shadow seemed to cast over his face as he said. "I won't have my sister die for me."

Clarke nodded, even though the image sent a painful stab through her chest. This was a war, and like the thousands before it, someone was doomed to die at its hands.

"I want to set out tomorrow evening," she whispered. "I already spoke with Koma and Inyo. I thought it'd be best if you spoke to Octavia in the morning."

Bellamy pressed his lips into a terse line, dropping his hand from her face. "I'll talk to her," he replied.

Her body suddenly felt colder in the absence of his touch and she scourged for a reason to initiate it again. To feel that familiar warmth spread through her.

In the beginning, Clarke had thought Bellamy somewhat cold and calculating, rigid in his position of authority. But now that cold had melted away, exposing the bright fire beneath. It was a relentless flame, fueled by passion, by justice, and if she stood close enough to him, could feel its burn.

Something must've shown in her expression, probably her blush, that caused Bellamy to smirk. "You feeling okay, Princess?" he asked, his voice taunting.

Clarke cleared he throat and nodded, hoping to appear unfazed. But then she wondered why. Why did it matter if she let him know he got to her? Tomorrow evening would mark the next step in this war. She didn't have the time to look unaffected.

A question bubbled up to her lips, and tumbled out before she could stop it. "Can I stay here tonight?" she blurted.

Surprise filled Bellamy's gaze and his eyebrows rose a little but she quickly shook her head. "Not...Not like that. I just don't want-"

"It's fine, Clarke," he said. "I actually prefer it." He looked back to his cot, small and narrow and clearly fit to hold only one person. But he still asked what side she wanted.

She bit back a chuckle. "I can just take the floor."

He let out a rough breath, close to a laugh. "Just get in the bed, Clarke."

She teased her lower lip. "I think you should go first."

He made that sound again. "Its not like it's a hammock. Unless," he cast her a devilish smile. "You're that uncomfortable and you want me to take the floor instead?"

She looked at him incredulously, crossing her arms over her chest as she glared at him. "I didn't ask to stay just so I could kick you out of your own bed."

He motioned to it with a hand, a bit exasperatedly. "Then get in."

"You first. Its easier for me to get settled."

This time, it was a tangible laugh he let out as he finally consented, lying down on the cot. Clarke was right; it barely left her any room and she hesitated. She didn't want to accidentally land on his wounds and she stalled herself. "How should I-?"

"Oh, forget it." Bellamy said, as he suddenly lurched upward and snagged her wrist. He pulled her, not hard, but enough to coax her onto the bed. Then his arms went around her waist and he laid back on the bed, taking her with him. Clarke's heart hammered inside her, as she raised her hands up to Bellamy's chest. His heartbeat echoed hers, loud and powerful, slamming against his ribs like some caged animal desperate for release.

A quietness enveloped them, and she wasn't sure if that was from tension or awkwardness steadily eating away at the silence.

"Are you nervous, Clarke?" He asked, breaking the stillness and there were traces of humor in his voice.

She tried to breathe passed the emotion, the fire, steadily burning its way through her but managed to shake her head. With the cramped spacing, it came out as just a jostle. "I don't see why I would be. We've slept next to each other a hundred times before."

"I don't recall us ever sleeping like _this_ before. Unless I'm forgetting something."

Clarke had to agree with him on that point.

She almost offered to leave, but she honestly couldn't bring herself to form the words. Though slightly nerve wracking, this still felt comfortable. No, not comfortable,-natural. It felt right, however much her cheeks flamed and her heart threatened to break out of her chest.

She tried to calm it, resting her head on Bellamy's shoulder, away from his cuts. "You think we'd be used to war by now," She mumbled, as the concept of leaving tomorrow instilled a coil of fear in her.

Bellamy tightened his hold on her, making whorls on her skin where his fingers touched. "I don't want to talk about war."

She tilted her chin up. "Then what do you want to talk about?"

Clarke watched as he deliberated, eyes trained on the ceiling. The light from the torches flickered in his gaze. "If we didn't have a war coming, if we weren't constantly have our lives threatened, if we were safe, what would you be doing right now?"

The question caught her off guard but she mulled over it, imagining a pencil in her hand, caressing a clean sheet of paper.

"I used to draw," she murmured, picturing the dozens of lines etched into a face, the vibrant colors she used to mimick paintings from books. But she didn't understand what it was she had been trying to capture until she'd landed here.

Bellamy's gaze dropped to one of her hands and he stroked the tough callous on her right index finger, formed from hours and hours of a pencil rubbing there.

"What do you like to draw?" He asked, His breath tickling the air beside her.

She sighed. "People. Places. Things of my own making. I get to control the outcome in my drawings. What I draw, why it is the way it is...I decide."

Bellamy's eyes met hers, the fire still licking at his irises, turning them to flames. "I'd like to see one sometime."

Clarke let out a soft chortle. "I haven't picked up a pencil in months. And all of my other drawings were lost on the Ark."

He shrugged beneath her. "Draw new ones. You don't have to go by pictures anymore. Here you get the real thing."

It was as of he'd just peeked inside her mind and read what she'd been thinking. "I think I will," she said. "After all this is over."

Bellamy turned his head to her. "Why not right now?" He asked.

Clarke scoffed, but there was a smile on her lips. "We don't have any pencils here, Bellamy. Or paper."

He shook his head slightly. "You don't need any of that. Just show me how you'd do it."

Her smile deepened at his words and though Clarke didn't know exactly what she was planning, she hefted herself up on her elbows, until she was leaning over his face. His eyes peered up at her, the corner of his mouth pulled up in the ghost of a smile.

Clarke took a deep breath, feeling her heart skip a beat as she brought her finger down to his face. "No laughing," she told him and he smiled for real. "I wouldn't dare."

Clarke nodded in approval. "Well, first, I'd start with the eyes," she said, running her finger lightly over his lashes. "They're the most important part. Because it makes it easier to frame the face and offers a guideline for everything else. For dark eyes, I'd leave a small reflection of light, to draw attention to them." Her fingertip lifted to the palpebral portion. "After that, I'd lightly outline the eyebrows." She trailed down the bridge of his nose, ending at the bow of his lips. "Then I'd use the eyes to measure the placement of the nose. The lines have to be gentle, or they'll make the features too sharp and too cartoonish."

His eyes watched hers intently as Clarke went along, tracing his cheekbones, his chin. The sallow area beneath the eyes and the folds of the lids.

"For the lips," she said, suppressing the heat that suddenly rose to her cheeks. "Again, I'd use the eyes to measure them. See, the trick with the lips is that it's all shading. No hard lines, no dark strokes, because they're made of soft tissue, and deep colors would ruin them."

Ever so lightly, her fingertips skimmed them, and she painted the picture of him in her head, hoping that next time with a real pencil, she'd be able to get it right.

"Then I'd finish with highlights," she went on. "Usually on the top of the cheekbones, the bottom lip. The tip of the nose and the tearduct of the eyes. The shadows become an advantage because they contrast with the highlights and bring out the features."

Clarke felt his heart beating impossibly faster and she couldn't keep the smile from her lips.

"The the last thing I'd do is place my mark on it. I didn't start doing that until I was put in a cell."

The memory of it surged, unwelcome and clear in her mind's eye. "The walls were covered in drawings and I chose to write my name, so that whoever saw them would remember me, and the girl they sent to die on the ground."

She felt Bellamy take a slow breath, his chest rising beneath her. "I'm glad we were sent here," he whispered to her, eyes watching her in earnest. "We may have almost died half the time, but it gave us a reason. A purpose. Something to fight for."

Clarke nodded in agreement, settling back down beside him, her finger still tingling. "Staying on the Ark would've been easier. Less people would've died here, but it was never intended to be a home. It was always a cage, however accommodating they made it to be."

"What was your mark?" He asked, pulling her closer to him. "How do you write it?"

She grasped one of his hands and brought it up to her. Using her index finger, she traced her name, imagining the letters engraved onto his palm.

When she was done, she let him tighten his hold around her again.

Though warmth still courses through her veins, Clarke felt the weight of exhaustion settle on her and even if she didn't want this to end, wanted to stay up and talk with him just for the sake of sharing words, the reality was that the next evening they would leave to fight a war.

"We need to get some sleep for tomorrow," she whispered.

She felt Bellamy nod. "Yeah," he said, but his voice sounded thick and he coughed. A moment later, his lips pressed to her forehead and Clarke closed her eyes, feeling more content here than she had in months.

She still found it odd, though, how it could be this way with him. Intimate and personal. But unlike any other relationship she knew, it wasn't built on simple attraction. Their hearts had entertained themselves before she'd even recognized it herself and she burrowed herself in the crook of his shoulder, fitting there as if it had been molded just for her.

Bellamy started to hum then, like he had when they'd been returning from the Boat People's tribe, their soles caked in the ashes of ruin. But it was soothing now, just like it had been on that night and she shoved away her worries, to save for the coming dawn.

As for this moment, she would not let thoughts of war intrude on them. She wouldn't acknowledge the fear or the endless possibilities and what ifs. Right now, they were just themselves, devoid of the stain of blood and guilt and death. For this fleeting moment in time, they were the people they'd been on the Ark; a boy who kept his sister's existence a secret, and a girl who found solace in paper and pencils.


	23. In Her Absence

**This chapter has been uncooperative. Scratch that, it's been the hardest chapter, and I'm not sure why. Quite possibly it's that interlude between romance and war. Or maybe because it's a filler chapter. Plus, I'm still trying to keep the characters in their designated portrayals and not to go off gallivanting in their own** **directions. Because they do that. They disobey. Anyhow, the next chapter should be easier.**

Bellamy awoke to a bright shaft of light, splitting through the small window above his head and striking against his eyes. He blinked the sleep from them, regaining a sense of his surroundings.

Something tickled his neck and he glanced down.

Clarke's head was nestled there, his shoulder in use as a pillow, with his arms bound tightly around her. She was still asleep, and she looked more at peace now than Bellamy ever recalled seeing her awake.

He felt his heart still for a moment, staring transfixed, at her closed eyes.

Never would he have pictured himself in this scenario. Him with Clarke. Here. And he was struck by how at ease he felt. No nightmares had hunted him in sleep. He wasn't experiencing his usual need to put everything into each minute, to keep his mind off himself and to keep most of these people in this camp alive.

Right now, he felt very far away from the deadly grip of war, from the coming journey. He actually felt calm, and to his bewilderment...happy.

Bellamy discarded that feeling as quickly as he could. No. Now wasn't the time for that. He needed to keep his focus, and he would not allow himself to fantasize on the crest of war. That was careless. If he did and something went wrong, the war wouldn't have to destroy him. He'd do that himself.

Clarke stirred beside him and Bellamy watched her as her eyes flickered open, the blues of them brilliant in the morning light.

He saw the emotions play out across her features. Confusion. Surprise. That blush he'd grown accustomed to over the last few days. Bellamy hadn't known her capable of blushing before, But that knowledge was reassuring. He liked still having things to learn.

"Morning," he said as blasé as he could manage. It was taking effort not to laugh at her, but he doubted he looked any more collected. This was just as new to him and Bellamy was still finding his footing. It was like both nothing and everything changed. How they spoke, how they were, still felt the same. There were traces of familiarity in her touch. But it was also uncharted territory, as if seeing her under a different light. She was still her, and he was still him, but together they formed something entirely different and entirely new.

Clarke smirked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Morning," she mumbled, glancing at the window. She sat up, pulling out of his embrace and stared around at the room before looking down at him. "This is kind of weird," she mused. "But it's also not."

Bellamy smiled. "That's a little misleading, Clarke. Now's not the time to be sending mixed signals."

She rolled her eyes. "The only signals I send are military ones."

Bellamy licked his lips and pulled himself up, into a sitting position beside her. He cast a look at the window and felt reality steadily returning to him, like a cold, bitter draft. "We should get going," he told her.

Clarke eyed the door. "Give it another minute," she said, and looked back to him. Bellamy saw a hesitancy in her eyes. "I don't want to go back just yet."

He nodded, and took her hand in his. "Finally something we can both agree on."

Clarke let out a humored breath. "Finally? We don't disagree that often."

Bellamy smirked. "Not anymore. We learned how to communicate." He tightened his hold on her hand. "It became easy, when I started to understand we were more alike than we were different. I think that's why it took so long to work together in the beginning. Why it took me months to see you as an asset, and stop seeing you as competition."

Clarke met his eyes, and he saw the emotions dancing inside them, but he struggled to place what they were. It was a composition of sadness and contentment, of complacency and distant recollections. "That day we found the shelter, and you told me that you didn't think you we're good enough," she whispered, "that's the first time I saw you, Bellamy. It was the first time I felt grateful that you were with me."

Bellamy remembered it clearly, that guilt that had ravaged him, pale in comparison to what he endured this past year, but guilt all the same. And then he recalled Clarke's words, cutting through the dark and providing a point of light. Somewhere to hope.

"And here we are now," he said. "Not dead. Together."

Clarke shifted closer to him. "Both good things. Let's just hope it stays that way."

The words seemed to bring with them a tangible darkness but Belly pushed it back. "Quit with the pessimism," said, struggling to inject some humor in his voice but it felt strained. A moment later, he stopped trying and the air turned tense. "I don't know if we're going to win this, Clarke. Who knows, maybe this camp will be nothing but ashes by next week. But what I do know, is that the Ice Nation can't stand forever. And the people that always fall first are those foolish enough to believe they can't be beaten."

Clarke pursed her lips. "Whether we win or not, there's always going to be another battle. More death. It's how this place works." She rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward, until her forehead was pressed to his. "'Only the dead have seen the last of war,'" she whispered.

Bellamy cupped the sides of her face and dipped down, just enough to meet her lips with his. Clarke kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

He couldn't get over this, the sense of how she matched him, like they were two sides of the same coin; both lit with an identical flame that burnt differently.

It was a few moments later that they were interrupted. The door swung open and in walked Octavia, clad on her usual Grounder gear, her lips forming a question directed at Bellamy. But when her eyes met Clarke's, she stilled, her inquiry snapping off like a twig.

Her eyebrows rose as she glanced between Clarke and her brother, lips puckering in distaste. "Bad timing?" she asked.

Clarke sat up straighter, looking as reserved as one could on someone else's bed.

Bellamy followed suit, and for some inexplicable reason, he found himself trying to suppress a smile. Instead, he looked at his sister nonchalantly, before sitting forward to pull on his boots. "You should learn to knock, O," he said.

Clarke fidgeted uncomfortably beside him and Bellamy cast a glance at her, all diplomacy again. She hastily stood up. "I have to speak with Indra about preparations. Among other things." Clarke gave him a knowing look and Bellamy understood the hidden message communicated through it. He nodded and watched her leave.

When she was gone, he reverted his attention back to Octavia, who was staring at him through narrowed eyes.

Bellamy feigned coolness, pushing aside thoughts of blood and death and tried to find the words that were already beginning to weigh him down. "I was going to come find you."

She smirked. "Yeah. I could see that."

He shook his head, as if to reassure his sister that nothing had happened, but let it go. There were greater issues to direct and though Bellamy wouldn't admit this aloud, he'd considered taking up Clarke on her offer and keeping Octavia out of it. Old habits died hard and offering his sister a spot on the battlefield didn't exactly flow in sync with that. But Clarke had spoken the truth; Octavia had a right to fight for her people, for herself. For whatever purpose she found in cutting down the Ice Nation.

He began strapping on the rest of his gear. "Clarke's put together a team," he told her, strapping on his vest. "She's sick of waiting for the Nation to make the first move and frankly, I am, too. If there's a possibility of a ceasefire, this is her plan to find it."

Octavia watched him carefully, her gaze burning into him. "I thought everyone was already keeping their eyes out for their Queen."

"She's not going to come down with her men, O. Not if what Luna told Clarke was true. She wants a smaller group, easier to maneuver if it comes to a game of cat and mouse. And," he clenched his hands. "She wants you with us."

Octavia blinked at him, her eyes still thinly veiled in suspicion. "Don't you have objections?"

Oh, he had objections. Bellamy was just choosing not to voice them. For once, he didn't want to inhibit her judgment. "You're not a kid anymore," he said. "You're capable of looking out for yourself and this is your decision. It's not something I'm going to try and make for you. Plus," he let out a humorless breath. "I couldn't stop you even if I wanted."

Surprise flitted across her face and she waited, as if anticipating a contradiction.

It didn't come.

"And Clarke talked you into this?"

Bellamy would not mention the agreement he'd come to with her. That was one thing he _wouldn't_ include. The last thing he wanted was for Octavia to feel responsible for his life. That wasn't fair to her. "Let's just say she spoke in your favor," he replied, somewhat ambivalent.

"I already know you're coming," he added. "As Clarke said, she's making preparations. We leave before nightfall."

Octavia lingered there for a moment, keeping her eyes fixated on her brother with a smile playing around her lips. "That's impressive."

"That I'm not arguing with you on it?"

"That Clarke convinced you in the first place." She shrugged. "Makes me actually glad she's in charge."

In spite of Bellamy's subtle dismay, he smiled. "You and me both."

* * *

Clarke spent the morning ensuring the camp was prepared for a strike, in case of an impromptu attack. And more importantly, she wouldn't be leaving these grounds without the promise that the Grounders could defend themselves properly. That included patrols, scouts, gun inventory, and possible strategies that could be utilized in what-if scenarios. For this, Clarke appointed Indra as head for the duration of her absence. And if she failed to return, well, that was a different issue entirely.

They wouldn't be using horses. Though they were fast, they were also obvious, a call that could get them all killed and when late afternoon approached, Clarke began with packing the supplies. She wished Raven could spare a few more explosives, but guilt settled in her at the prospect. No, if they did cross paths with the Ice Queen, Clarke would take her down the classic way-a bullet through the chest.

By the time evening was coloring the horizon a dark blue, Clarke was waiting for the others by the entrance, that stone statue leering over her in an almost predatory manner. Bellamy was the first to arrive, followed by Inyo and Koma. Inyo was a broad-shouldered man, black hair done up in a long braid that fell down nearly the length of his spine. Koma was the opposite; limber and obviously a few years younger, having not quite grown fully into his body yet. But both pairs of eyes were lit with a similar spark, of anticipation and the undeniable feeling that they were doing something important. That maybe, in the grand scheme of things, their position mattered just a little bit more than the rest.

Of course, that wouldn't matter anyway. It wasn't until you faced death in war that you realized it was nothing special. You bled, you hurt, you died. And Clarke speculated that by the end of this war, they would understand that, if they didn't fall victim to it themselves.

When Octavia and Lincoln had gathered with them, Clarke spoke with Indra again, ignoring the hostility she felt radiate off the woman. Indra might not have liked her, but even Clarke could see she was respected by her, hidden beneath a layer of disdain.

Clarke cast a look around the camp, feeling a twinge of sadness swell inside her. Some of these Grounders would die in the next few days. Maybe all of them, and for a second, Clarke hoped that if the latter happened, she'd at least have the honor of going down with them.

"We're ready, Clarke," Bellamy spoke beside her and she turned her back to the camp, and towards spectral trees that cast blankets of shadow over them. "Position yourselves in a circle," she told them. "I don't feel like being stabbed from behind."

They fanned outward, until each of them held a different direction in their gazes. Clarke felt her heart kick a bit faster the farther they went from the camp, expecting the trees to come alive with hidden Ice Scouts. For them to be blitzed. But there was also an odd feeling of peace Clarke found, in acting and doing something instead of waiting for it to come to them.

But every sound still put her more on edge until she felt as if she were dangling before a huge cliff; that just one move could tip her the wrong way.

No one spoke as they walked. Clarke kept her eyes on the trees, the ground before her, at the bulbous moon, illuminating their path.

Clarke wasn't sure how long they walked for. She noticed as evening gave way to complete night and stars glittered ahead. The air grew a few degrees colder until it pricked her skin and made her shiver in her coat but they kept going, over the forested terrain with the moon as their torch. The adrenaline helped keep any signs of exhaustion away from her, but it would take its toll sooner or later. Occasionally, Lincoln or Bellamy would stop, attention latching on to some distant sound, and Clarke would freeze herself, waiting for the glinting knives and the sound of boots.

But it always turned out to be some animal and eventually, Clarke relaxed some.

It must've been a few hours later when Octavia opted to set up camp but Clarke had them go a little longer, until her alertness grew dull and her yes started to blur. She still offered to take the first watch with Inyo, though.

"I'll do it," Bellamy said, already situating himself on a nearby rock, with his gun cradled on his legs. "You can take my shift, Clarke."

Content with that, she nodded, even though he couldn't see it and took out her rolled pack. Clarke refused to light a fire at the possibility of drawing attention, so she accepted the cold, intrusive in its presence as it clung to her clothes and nipped at her cheeks. Sleep was elusive for awhile, and she kept her eyes on those woods, waiting, waiting, waiting.

But eventually, sleep sought her out, and she gave in to its embrace.

* * *

It felt as if only a few minutes had passed when Bellamy jostled her shoulder, forcing her awake. She blinked the sleep away and sat up, eyeing the lightening sky. "It was quiet all night," he reported, and Clarke's gaze returned to those trees, a light wind rustling the branches around her. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were teasing her, hiding them, and hiding the Ice Scouts, neutral on both sides.

She stood up and took her gun, taking up the spot Bellamy had occupied for the last couple of hours.

"Get me up if you hear anything," he told her and she nodded in agreement.

Koma replaced Inyo, and took the watch post on the opposing side of their small camp. Clarke didn't look away from the surrounding trees, the boulders, even the distant hillsides. Something didn't feel right but she wondered if she was simply being paranoid. She couldn't seem to rid herself of that feeling, being on a ledge, standing on a mine, seconds away from disaster.

Koma spoke for the first time since they'd left. "I see something," he said.

Clarke's head whipped around in his direction.

A flock of birds suddenly took flight over it, looking no more than black spots dotted the skyline, and Clarke watched them for a moment, alarm ringing like bells in her ears. She looked where Koma was speaking of, over the area the birds had flown from, and the unnatural grey color the sky had become there. Miles away, plumes of smoke billowed into a cloud over the trees, too large to be a campfire, and too small to be a forest fire.

"No," Clarke whispered, the word barely audible as she stared at the growing smoke, hanging in the sky like a formidable thing as it enveloped that sect of trees.

It was Tondc. And it was burning.


	24. Bloodlust

**Ah, I was correct; this chapter was MUCH easier to write because frankly, woo, another side to Clarke that I thought was appropriate to include. And I was right; this will have more than twenty five chapters. But less than thirty. That is my estimate. But now, sound the alarm! The war has arrived!**

Clarke roused the other four instantly, with a sharp, "everyone, up!"

Bellamy was on his feet in seconds, and Lincoln had his bow clutched in hand a moment later, but Clarke kept her eyes on the smoke, the wisps tinging the sky a bleak grey.

"What is that?" Bellamy asked, his tone haunted as he took in the rising smoke.

But Clarke could tell he already knew. "Tondc's under attack," she said.

This was what they'd been waiting for; what they'd gone to meet. But the war had finally come. And it had started without them.

Her thoughts swam, but Clarke pushed through the mental fog, keeping her eyes on the artificial cloud.

"Do we go back?" Octavia asked, and beneath the cold calculation, Clarke could sense her desperation. She didn't blame her. Clarke was feeling panicked herself, but shoved it down, trying to coax a new plan into existence.

She broke her gaze away from the smoke and back to their small group. Six people. Three groups of two. An Ice Queen somewhere in the distance, taunting them all.

"We split up," Clarke said, already shouldering her gun. "Koma and Inyo will head northeast, back to Tondc. Octavia and Lincoln, You go southwest. Bellamy and I are going to go around back."

"And if we find their Queen?" Inyo asked.

At the mention, hot, boiling anger lit inside Clarke, reducing her insides to ash until everything felt hollowed out, burnt to nothing. All this trouble, all this _death,_ for a single individual. But Clarke had to remind herself that the Queen was just a person, hidden among her phalanx of guards. She wasn't above death; she was beautifully mortal.

"If you find her," Clarke said, her voice curving darkly and sounding disturbingly even. "Do whatever it takes to kill her. I don't want a prisoner, I want a corpse."

"Clarke," Octavia stepped forward, close enough to whisper low. "What if Luna was wrong and killing her just pisses them off more? What do we do then?"

Clarke stared at her but didn't allow the words to faze her. "Then they're still down a leader. And we still fight. Maybe by some miracle, we'll win. But if not, we'll take as many of them as we can down with us."

* * *

Clarke and Bellamy set off quickly, breaking off from the rest as they started into different directions. The sun was fast approaching, traces of vibrant orange blending with the blue. A cold breeze whispered through the woods, burrowing beneath Clarke's clothes and kissing her skin. She shivered, but didn't slow, keeping her gun pointed ahead as they moved swiftly passed the trees.

Already the bitter tang of smoke permeated the air, the smell of roasted wood wafting miles out. Clarke tried not to imagine what else she could be smelling and her mind flashed back to the Boat People, to the Mountain Men, and the putrid stench of burnt flesh.

Time crawled along and Bellamy stayed beside her, barrels aimed in opposite directions. They moved faster than they had yesterday, with greater visibility and a reason to _hurry._ The smoke was beginning to thicken until it cast them in a bleary haze, that stung Clarke's eyes and tickled her throat. For a war that raged just a few miles North, the woods felt eerily silent. Even the wind seemed to have stopped in its tracks and Clarke felt herself holding her breath as they walked across a rocky decline.

Bellamy turned to her. "Wait," he said, eyes narrowing in the direction of the thickened foliage. A moment passed in silence, empty; unthreatening.

But then the trees parted and Clarke glimpsed black cloth before four figures emerged, eyes gazing back behind equally dark masks.

Clarke's heart stilled and it was like something from a dream, as she watched the Ice Scouts, almost bionically, lift their gleaming blades. Two raised guns.

"Down!" Bellamy shouted, dropping behind a boulder and Clarke followed, lying stomach-first in the bed of rock. She didn't have time to think; she aimed and fired, sending bullets ricocheting over the decline. The Scouts moved out of the way and returned the fire, bullet fragments burying into the rocks and ground beside her.

Clarke shoved her head down as far as the stones would allow. She raised her gun above her head and shot rounds blindly. It must've found its target; the heavy sound of gunshots hiccupped before half of it blinked out. Clarke raised her head, just enough to make out the three figures, one wounded, one taking refuge behind a tree, one still firing.

But there had been four.

Clarke realized it just in time. The gleam of metal flashed in her peripheral vision and she rolled to the side, just as the steel met the ground where her head had just been. She raised her eyes, enough to meet a pair of lifeless green ones, before she scurried back. The Ice Scout slashed his blade again, cutting the air above her as Clarke faltered away, heart beating like a drum in her chest. Her hands clutched at the gun, but before she could fire a shot, the blade came down again, knocking it from her hands.

It went scattering down the decline and Clarke felt her stomach sink when the distant _clack_ of it sounded, falling out of reach and to the rocky base below.

Stones dug into her palms and Clarke grasped a sharp rock behind her. She lopped it at the Scout, earning a satisfied crunch of stone on metal. He kept coming, though, seax sword grinning at her wickedly in the brilliant morning light. She tried to grab another one, but the Ice Scout moved deftly, lithe like something catlike, and something feral. She dove to the right as the blade crossed down again, cutting through her sleeve and grazing her arm. Clarke hissed out a breath, but managed to right herself, just as the blade sought her out again.

She swept her leg under him. The Scout jostled, just for a moment, but it was enough. Clarke moved out of the way as the blade connected with fleshless ground. More bullets hailed around her and she flinched back as one pinged off the rocks beside her, so close to putting one through her head. The Scout looked unbothered, and this time Clarke couldn't move fast enough. The man moved with unnatural grace, movements nimble and hands adroit. The blade flashed, blurring with speed, cutting the air next to her in ribbons. Her eyes met the Scout's and she could see the cold ferocity in them, craving her death, the sword craving her blood.

But the sound of a bullet suddenly cut through to her and the Scout stilled.

Clarke stared back, her eyes landing on the expanding patch of dark liquid and the bullet hole that had torn through his chest.

The man dropped to his knees, those unsettling green eyes still watching her, the rest of him hidden behind his black façade.

Clarke allowed herself a single breath as she stood up, keeping her gaze on him for another moment before turning her attention to Bellamy. His gun was trained on the remaining Ice Scout, but his eyes were watching her. She gave him a curt nod.

Around them, three of the Ice Scouts were dead. The first one she'd shot whose wounds he'd succumbed to, and the two Bellamy had taken down. The last stood with his seax blade in hand, eyes framed behind that mask watching them intently.

Clarke didn't have the luxury of allowing herself a few seconds to recover from fingering the hands of death and instead came forward, until she was standing next to Bellamy. That anger she'd had this morning returned, coursing through her and turning the edges of her vision red. Fueled by cold fury, Clarke snatched up the nearest Scout's blade, the handle still warm from the dead man's grip. The feeling of it felt alien in her palm but she clung to it, and leveled its tip to the man's jaw.

"Drop it," she told him.

But the Scout didn't. He just stared back at Clarke, with those unfeeling eyes so many of the Ice Nation had.

Bellamy came forward and wrested the sword out of his hand with a sharp hit of the butt of his gun. The Scout dropped it, but still appeared unfazed.

Clarke took a step closer. "Where is your Queen?" she asked, tone laced with a threat and chilled to the bone. She had her doubts he'd answer her. Death would be to his advantage, not theirs, which left only one alternative; pain.

But her people were dying. and her alternatives were on a very taut leash.

She took the blade and slowly drew it across his shoulder, until a blossom of darker liquid bloomed across the black cloth. Images flipped through her memory, of her standing in his shoes, feeling a knife laced with poison being dragged across her flesh. This was what he'd done to people, and now, he got to experience it first hand.

"I can do that, Clarke," Bellamy proffered, but Clarke shook her head, not looking away from the Scout's eyes. "No. I want to show him what his people do. The work they take _pride_ in."

To her confusion, the Scout let out a humorless breath, the sound chaffing. "You're naïve if you think this is the first taste we've received of the Blade."

Clarke lips parted in horror and disbelief and she pressed the seax sword against his jawline again, hidden beneath a thin layer of black cloth. "You were tortured?"

She couldn't see it, but Clarke had the unsettling feeling that he was smirking at her. "Of course," he said. "It's the only way she would know how we faired in enemy hands."

For a second, Clarke was rendered speechless as she stared back at him in disgust. She had thought she'd known the Ice Nation fairly well, but this...this was something even Clarke had placed beneath the Ice Nation. But it was evident they had no limits. Their morals were as fragmented and irreparable as the dust.

She couldn't keep the hint of incredulity from her voice as she replied, "And yet, you're still loyal to her." It was a question and a statement, rolled into one.

The Scout's eyes bored into her, and Clarke saw no light in them, just an apathetic void. "She is my Queen," he stated plainly. "And you should know, that a society without loyalty is destined to be crushed."

Even Bellamy seemed to struggle at comprehending the words. It was one thing to be tortured by your own leader. It was another to still swear fealty to them. "That's not loyalty," Bellamy snapped. "That's delusion."

Clarke clenched her jaw, the blade in her hand suddenly appearing to gain a few pounds. For a single heartbeat, she felt sorry for this man. Whoever he was. But the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. He was not a victim anymore. Clarke would understand if he'd complied for the insurance of his family, but he wasn't obeying by force. He found reason in it. He found _honor_ in it.

Clarke pushed the edge of the blade into him, meriting a tightness between his brows. "Where is she?"

The Scout's eyes narrowed in derision. "I know who you are," he breathed. "The woman who escaped the Ice Nation. The woman who endured torture for months. The woman who simply would not die." Bitter disappointment sounded in his voice. "I wish I could live long enough to see us finish the job."

Clarke's grip on the hilt tightened until her knuckles were white. "Your Queen is a coward," she said slowly. Menacingly. "She hides among her own people and forces them to fight her battles alone." She took a step closer, dragging down the blade until the black cloth became damp. "You might not live long enough to watch me die, but at least you'll know what I intend to do. Consider this a promise; I will find your Queen. And when I do, I'll kill her."

The Scout merely looked back, his eyes suddenly giving way to quiet appraisal. "You would have made a good Ice Scout."

Clarke barely had time to register his words. In the next moment, the man moved forward, gnarled hands stretching out to Clarke. In defense, she raised the blade and turned her head away. There was a sickening squelch, soon followed by a weak gasp.

Slowly, Clarke looked back, at the Scout who stood inches from her, and down, run through by his own sword.

She stumbled away from him, gaping in horror, her hands shaking as she let go of the blade. But the damage had been done. The Ice Scout stood for another moment, his unseeing eyes still locked with hers and Clarke was only vaguely surprised that they looked no different, even in death.


	25. Impetus

**Guys! Where'd y'all go There will be either three or four chapters left! No more than four and I need much motivation and encouragement. Cuz I've got this one specific scene that I am SO excited to write and actually came up with first before anything else. I think. I think this is my favorite chapter actually. I really got into it. OH, and please tell me if I portray war all right. It's ironic because I hate gore so...this will be interesting. AND, lastly, is everyone still kept in character? P** **lease review!**

Clarke stepped around the man at her feet, blood still soaking into the ground. There was a ringing in her ears but she ignored it, still looking at the body whose own eyes had broken from hers and now stared blindly towards the trees.

"We have to keep moving," she said, her voice sounding distant. Quickly, she made her way over the rough decline and fetched her gun. The cool steel of it bit into her palms and for some reason, she didn't find its presence very comforting.

When she returned, Clarke felt Bellamy's gaze on her, wary and maybe a bit questioning, but none of it leaked into his tone. "Stay behind me," he told her. "Their bodies will be found soon enough."

Clarke nodded and started walking, keeping her eyes to the sides and behind them as they tread hurriedly across the embankment and into the thick cloisters of trees. Above, Clarke couldn't help but steal glimpses of that smoke, the size of it leeching the blueness from the sky. They were getting closer to the camp and though they couldn't yet make out the screams, the ghosts of them clinging to the light breeze haunted her.

Clarke's hand tightened over her gun. She pictured the bodies of those dead Scouts, lying defeated, the unbeatable Nation stripped of a few more of its soldiers. A part of her expected to feel relieved; to feel some trace of satisfaction in that small victory. But those who went looking for pleasure in blood never found it, and that included Clarke.

They moved deftly. Clarke aimed her gun at every sound, every rustle of trees. The sun crept higher overhead, but was soon hidden behind a thin blanket of smog, casting everything a watery yellow. They were just over the crest of another hill, a couple miles from the camp, when a popping noise sounded, shattering the stillness and freezing them in their stance.

Clarke looked back at the rising smoke, the curls of flame she imagined were there. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she thought she caught a flash of orange. "Why haven't they put them out yet?" she said, and she heard the twinge of desperation there. This was what she'd been afraid of; that they wouldn't be prepared. That they wouldn't be organized. That they'd fail to do what needed to be done.

"We have to move faster," she told him, and resumed her trek, now almost a sprint. Bellamy didn't argue and he kept ahead of her, watching the trees. Clarke expected more Scouts to appear. For gunshots to break out around them, but no Scouts replaced the three dead ones and she kept going, until the burnt aroma of smoke started to make her eyes water and she could catch the small spurt of flames, licking at one of the treetops.

Her heart sunk in her chest and she almost moved around Bellamy, to hurry up and get _there._ Already shouts were consuming them, until Clarke couldn't remember when they hadn't been there, and the flames grew more visible between the trees. For just a moment, Clarke marveled at it, at the irony that a Nation built beneath the ice would rely so heavily on fire.

"Clarke, your left!" Bellamy shouted and Clarke drew her gun in that direction, just as a figure clothed in black descended. She fired a round and caught the man in the leg, sending him kneeling to the floor. She turned back to Bellamy, glimpsing the two, three, men in heavy cloaks, waving like an omen of death. One of the three held their own firearm and Clarke went for him first. At least she knew she'd been right; the Ice Nation had stashed more guns somewhere else.

A bullet whizzes by her head and Clarke flinched back, sending more of her own. There was a bitten cry but Bellamy finished him, with one bullet punched through the man's chest.

"We have to go around!" Bellamy shouted at her and she gave him a stiff nod. She started off to the left, eyes roving over the trees as she moved through them, clutching the gun with white knuckles. From this distance, she glimpsed the statue ahead, glaring down at the ground around its foundation.

She made towards it, no longer in a hurried gait, but an all-out run. Her vision blurred as she tried to keep everything in sight. The trees, the camp, the forest floor. In front of her, Bellamy suddenly stopped, and Clarke secured her the butt of her gun on her shoulder, ready.

He glanced back to her and Clarke caught a sadness there, but it was vague beneath the hardness in his eyes. Fear settled like a stone in her gut as she came up beside him, and paused in front of the broken boy at their feet.

Koma.

Inyo crouched beside him, hand on the young man's chest, fingers stained red. Clarke could tell he'd stopped trying to staunch the bleeding and she could see why. Four patches of crimson decorated Koma's chest. One for each bullet. At best, he'd died by the first one-strait to the heart. A swift death. At worst, he'd suffered internal bleeding, and drowned in his own blood.

"I'd promised his mother that I would look out for him," Inyo murmured, his voice devoid of emotion. " _Yu gonplei ste odon,"_ he whispered, and lifted his hand to Koma's eyes, staring up at the grey-stained sky. He shut his lids.

Clarke's grip tightened on her gun. She'd anticipated something like this to happen. It was war. People died. People that deserved to live. Would it have turned out different if Clarke hadn't made him go?

"How old was he?" she asked Inyo.

The Grounder took up his gun again. He gave her a hard look, but it seemed to have been there already. "Sixteen," he breathed.

Clarke gave it a moment to sink in. Ten she was moving again, towards Tondc. They were losing ground fast. Their hold on this war was slipping through their slick, red fingers. If they lost today, that was it. She couldn't surrender and draw everyone to Mount Weather. It wouldn't be a haven. It would become a prison, and they'd turn to sheep, in line for the slaughter.

An explosion erupted, and the ground shook beneath her, nearly tossing Clarke sideways. She kept steady though, until she stood before the doors. Clarke looked back to the treeline, as if their Ice Queen would just appear there; she willed her to, but there was nothing, just the sound of bullets and explosives, just the feel of the earth rocking under them, lulling this world to sleep.

"Clarke!"

The call was slight over the cacophony of noise, but Clarke heard it the second time, eyes snapping to the source of it. Relief flooded her and she could feel it from Bellamy too, as Octavia ran over to them. A Scout materialized before her but Octavia moved quickly, driving a blade into his shoulder as Bellamy fired a single bullet. The Scout stood for an extra beat but then bent over and hit the ground in a lifeless heap.

"Did you find her?" Clarke asked before Octavia had even reached them. She needed to know. She needed to find their leader and end this before Tondc went up in flames.

But Octavia shook her head. A smear of blood caked her left cheek and she wiped at it with her arm. "Lincoln and I split up. I don't know where he is. But if he found her, I'm thinking this would've stopped by now."

Clarke bit out a curse. "How many dead?" _How many more until this goes from surrender to genocide?_

"The bombs bought us some time," Octavia said. "But it's running out." Her eyes suddenly turned somber. "It doesn't matter how much we prepared, Clarke. The Ice Nation is twice the size of Tondc. Twice the man power. We never really had a shot."

Clarke knew this. Even with the assistance of Mount Weather, bombs and technology, and guns, the Ice Nation had the advantage of _mass._ Of more soldiers skilled in combat than the Grounders.

Another bomb exploded, and a ripple shuddered through the ground again.

"She's here _somewhere,"_ Clarke hissed. "She wouldn't stay in the Ice Nation after their armory was blown. She's vulnerable there. Octavia," she turned to her. "Check the bodies. Their faces. I doubt she'd put herself in the middle of this, but I want to make _sure."_

"And if we don't find her, we die," Octavia said. It wasn't a question.

Clarke looked at the fire, leaping over the doors. She felt the heat of it on her face. "Some of us will die. The rest will be used as guidelines, to help them understand the tech. They'll be tortured for it, until they've lost their usefulness and death becomes a mercy."

A Scout appeared to their right, but Bellamy sent a round of bullets hurdling towards him. They buried themselves inside him and the Scout collapsed.

"Lincoln and I caught one," Octavia said. "Tried to get information out but they offed themselves before we could."

"Threats won't work," Clarke replied curtly. "Torture won't work." Nothing worked. Nothing _was_ working. The people she'd sworn to protect were dying. _Her_ people. Anger pulsed through her, mingling with desperation. It ran inside her as hot as the flames still stinging her cheeks. No, there had to be a way because no one was unbreakable. No one was impervious to pain. It couldn't be denied, and Clarke looked back around her.

She moved away from Octavia, keeping her gun aloft, as she strayed from the doors. One yard. Two yards. Three.

Something tripped her and Clarke lost her footing. She snatched up her gun and swung it around. It connected with something, and the breath went out of him. She shoved, but hands were suddenly on her. The brilliant spark of pain erupted over her shoulder blade, and Clarke hissed in a breath, and the hands tightened on her. She twisted around, meeting empty grey eyes.

A moment later, the Scout was being dragged off her and Bellamy pushed the barrel of his gun into the man's neck.

"Wait!" Clarke said, pulling herself to her feet. She looked at the Ice Scout, his gaze cold and murderous. "I want him alive."

"I'd like to see him dead," Bellamy replied, but he lowered his weapon and grabbed the man's hands, twisting them painfully behind his back. The man didn't protest. He seemed deadly calm, unconcerned and unafraid.

With his hands secured, Octavia helped so Bellamy could grab the man's mask and pull it down. It was strange to Clarke, to see Ice Scouts without their masks. She'd seen only one other, locked in the torture chamber of their nation. For some reason, he'd wanted her to see his face. For some reason, she'd been surprised that he'd had one.

Bellamy's free hand went around the Scout's jaw, prying it open. "Any cyanide pills on you?" he asked, his tone mocking. "Because you won't get a chance to use it."

Clarke took a step closer and raised her gun to the man's knee. She fired.

The Scout barked out a muffled cry of pain, but he endured it, as she knew he would. It was just a flesh wound; she couldn't have him running away. Clarke caught Bellamy's eyes and he seemed to understand. She took another step forward.

Clarke wasn't a proponent of torture. She repelled against the idea, the reminder of torturing Lincoln branded vividly into her memory. But this wasn't a potential ally. This wasn't her friend. This was a man who would never become either. But then Clarke had an idea; there were worst things than torture. And that was the thought of torture. The mind could conjure impossible amounts of pain. Could capture the picture of it without experience, without anything to go by. The idea painted itself.

Another explosion sounded, but Clarke paid it no mind and took a step forward until she was right before the Ice Scout. Yes, she was angry. She was burning on the inside out with it. But above that was desperation and the desire to keep her people, both Sky and Grounder, breathing.

"Clarke," Octavia cautioned. "What are you-?"

The sound of her unsheathing her small blade was her answer. Clarke lifted it to the man's face, the glinting tip of it caressing his cheek. He seemed unfazed by it, completely and utterly empathetic towards its presence.

"I know you've undergone torture," Clarke said, her words sharp and tethered together by a thinly-veiled threat. "I know you've had your fair share of pain at the hands of your leader. I don't doubt you know your poisons or how well you can endure a weapon laced with every kind of it." She took a step closer until her eyes burned into the Ice Scout's, as dull and metallic as wet stone. "But you were exposed only to your methods. We have our own and unlike your people who don't always know where they're cutting, I do. I know how to make you bleed out quickly, with just a single cut. Or how to do so slowly, drop by drop. I know how to incapacitate you; to paralyze you. To stun you with two thousand volts of electricity until you boil on the inside."

She lowered the tip of her blade to the black cloth and a piece of it tore through. "But there are also older techniques. Like the one implemented ninety seven years ago. Do you know what it was called? Lethal injection. They'd begin with anesthetic and then a drug that immobilizes you. To the point you cannot even speak. Your muscles lock up and the only thing you can do is _wait_ for the last drug; potassium chloride. It runs through your blood, to the heart, and stops it."

Clarke's gaze bored into his as she continued, her voice falling flat and cold. "And you want to know the worst part?" she asked. "If you're in pain, if the anesthetic didn't work, if it wasn't used at all, no one would know. No one but yourself, the only person who can't manage the words. You are literally kept, trapped inside your own body, waiting for death." She brought the blade back up to his pale skin. "So you might fear what your Queen can do to you if you make it back. But you have greater reason to fear if you don't."

The Scout stared back at her, and she could feel Bellamy's and Octavia's gaze on her, too, but she didn't look away. They were out of options, out of choices, and though she didn't want to go through with her threats, didn't want to be the one to deliver it however bad and tainted this man's soul was, he was still a man. He was still human.

"I am loyal to my Queen," the Scout said, his tone low and guttural. "And like her, you will not spare me."

Anger shuddered through Clarke, but she kept her voice steady. " _I_ am not like your people," she said coldly. _"I_ do not kill in cold blood. _I_ do not slaughter a village in the middle of the night. _I_ do not desecrate hundreds just because I see them as a threat or just because I see something of theirs I want for myself. You've made the mistake of assuming everyone is like you. And maybe I am, in a way. I have blood on my hands, but it's a _burden_ to me. Not an _honor._ And that's all you have, isn't it?"

"I am fighting for my people's lives," she continued. "For families, for children, for _tomorrow,_ but what do you fight for? Recognition? Power? And after that? Who do you share it with? What do you do with it? _What's the point?_ What's the point in gaining the entire world if it costs you your soul in the end?"

The Ice Scout smirked but Clarke felt the quickening of his heartbeat, pounding beneath his armor. "Your words have no impact. I'd rather die by your methods than live with the disgrace of treason."

"Clarke," Bellamy said, and she heard the warning there, of the fire, of their time, dwindling down.

She didn't let the pressure sound in her voice. "Your people may have survived all these years on the ground," she said, leaning forward until the black cloth ruffled against her arm. "But mine came from up there," Clarke gestured with her eyes above. "And we have knowledge long lost to you. If you want power or recognition, you won't have it for long. Every empire before you has fallen. Every ruler has watched something of theirs burn. And you're no exception. You've built your empire on the sand, no morals, no purpose, and it _will_ fall."

The Scout smiled, wicked and gruesome. "You underestimate my Queen," he said, almost gleefully. "You will look everywhere except the right place. She is in your blindspot."

Clarke dug the blade deeper until a bead of red bubbled to the surface. She was about to say something else, to try _anything,_ but then she paused, and narrowed her eyes. Suddenly she stood before a different Ice Scout, blade replaced by a longer one, soon to be coated in blood.

 _She hides among her own people,_ Clarke's words echoed back to her. _She_ _forces them to fight her battles alone._

 _You will look everywhere except the right place._

Clarke's eyes rose to the doors of Tondc.

 _She is in your blindspot._

Her body stilled. Her heart hitched up, climbing into her throat and she stepped away from the Scout. "She's in the camp," Clarke breathed.

Bellamy's eyes met hers. "She's what?"

"The Ice Queen," she said. " _Your_ Queen, is in Tondc."

She looked back at the Scout to see a glimmer of something. Fear? Trepidation? She saw nothing, but she knew. Clarke took back her gun and with the hilt of it, slammed it down on the Ice Scout's head. There was a crunch and he slouched down. He wasn't dead. Not yet.

Then Clarke was running, towards the entrance to Tondc, the explosions, the fires, still dancing beyond the doors. Now they were open, and she slid through with Octavia and Bellamy at her heels. Inside, it was as bad as she'd been led to believe; Tondc was alive in flames. They licked up at the stone houses, sprang across the ground. People littered the area around them, the dying, the dead. Dark stains of scarlet lay dribbled around them, like spilled paint.

She gazed around, through the thick smoke to the running Warriors. More bullets sounded. More men dropped. More arrows flew upwards and struck the ground nearby.

"Look for a mark!" Clarke told them. "Something noticeable. They wouldn't risk accidentally killing her."

They started moving through the camp, firing back at the Scouts that had managed to wheedle their way inside. Now they began to break through them, a mass of dark cloth trickling through the gaping doors like a black river. Like poison.

Clarke's eyes roved over the camp frantically. She caught the sight of a young girl, a child, draped across the ground. Her mother must have kept her from going to Mount Weather; assumed this safer. And now the child was dead.

Clarke kept moving, gazing into the face of every Grounder. Warrior and civilian alike. Man and woman. She looked to the left, where the safe house was and made for it. The building was on fire, but it was small and sputtering. She hurried to it, stopping as another bomb blew, as another grenade tossed dirt over her, until she was at its doors. It was locked from the outside and Clarke shot at it. Once, twice. Nothing.

A hand went to her arm. "Watch out," Bellamy told her, and she took a step back as he raised the hilt of his weapon. It came down with a loud _snap,_ and the lock broke from the door. He kicked it open, aiming his gun forward.

They were met with shouts, with the blinking eyes of injured Grounders and older members that had refused to seek sanctuary at Mount Weather. But Clarke was already searching. Some raised blades, until they saw their faces and relaxed some. Clarke looked into every set of eyes. Every pained expression. Then her attention landed on the dug out, a small tunnel leading out as an emergency exit.

"I'm going around," she told Bellamy, moving out of the entryway and behind the outside of the safe house. An explosion came closer, just over the wall, and she felt the heat of it nip at her face. But Clarke didn't slow down and she made it to the dug out, opening in an isolated corner of the camp, hidden by brush.

There was no one. No trace of someone coming through. Clarke turned in a circle. Blood roared in her ears and her entire body was shaking but she looked carefully.A hunter waiting for it's prey.

And stopped.

Passing beyond one of the houses, moving with caution, was someone clothed in women's garments. Grounder garments. But it was the red cuff around her left sleeve that caught Clarke's gaze, sewn into the fabric around the hem.

The mark. The Queen.

Clarke started walking. Fast. And it was like a magnetic pull that suddenly had the woman peering back, over her shoulder, for just a moment. Clarke met her eyes and it was like she returned to that chamber, glimpsing a pair of irises so black that the flame from the torches seemed to dance in the void of empty sockets.

 _I will find your Queen. And when I do, I'll kill her._


	26. Dying Light

**Oh my goodness. I just found out that this story is** ** _three hundred pages long._** **I wrote a book. Given, it's fanfiction, but it's a** ** _book._ I've done this before, but it took much longer. ****Made me giddy to know I could do something like that in less than two months. *Victory screech* And I'm very nervous for this chapter. I want it to live up to the expectations in my head. I hope it does. So here it is. Dun dun dun.**

The world paused. Everything paused, and Clarke stared, watching as the Ice Queen's guise melted from her features. The feigned terror evaporated. The innocence etched in her expression ceased, and just like that, she turned into something formidable.

A smile seemed to toy at her lips, as she turned on her heels and ran.

"O _ver here!"_ Clarke was vaguely aware of the shaking of her hands and she started after her, clutching her gun in a bone-white grip. Fire lurched around her and bodies still littered the ground, but Clarke maneuvered through it, losing sight of the Ice Queen. She regained a visual of her, eclipsed beyond tendrils of flame.

Clarke wanted to scream for Bellamy again, for all eyes to focus on this woman. But she didn't want to draw attention from the Ice Scouts. No, Clarke wanted to stand against that woman herself, and in the hush of war, silence her in front of her people.

Clarke raised her gun and tried for a shot. It missed, fragmenting off one of the stone buildings.

She hissed out a breath and started running again, weaving through the smoke, the fire, the explosions that still made the ground beneath her feet shift. She would not allow herself lose sight of her again. She _would not._

Clarke stepped through another dilapidated part of a building, a latticework of branch and rock consumed in flame. She spared just a single glance around, panic rising at the sight of Ice Scouts, a number that was steadily outweighing Grounders. Where were her people? Where were the _Sky people?_

Clarke forced her legs to move faster, turning the corner she'd seen the woman branch off in, and drew up short.

The Ice Queen stood meters away, facing her, as if in offering. The hood still pulled over her head cast her face in shadows, red hair snaking from beneath it and down like blood. She stood alone, isolated inside the camp, except for other Grounders rushing behind her, and for one ephemeral breath, Clarke wanted to believe that was it.

But she knew better.

As if to prove her right, the Queen drew up her hand-the one with the red cuff- high into the air.

Dread ran like ice water through Clarke's veins, chilling her to the bone as she watched, almost dazedly, as Grounders stepped forward, flanking the Ice Nation's leader.

But these weren't Grounders.

From somewhere in there gear and disguises, they unsheathed seax blades and the Queen drew back inside them. The Scouts held their weapons aloft, tips gleaming like teeth in the firelight. They'd lost their masks and Clarke stared into their faces- at average men, but with something undeniably dark clouding their expressions. They held no remorse for the death that stained the dirt around them; no hints of regret or even traces of pity. They were a stone people, their hearts encased in an eternal ice.

Clarke stood there, dumbfounded. Octavia had been right; they hadn't had much of a chance from the start.

She gazed at the Ice Scouts, feeling the gun in her hands weigh her down. But then one face, the only one she _knew,_ caught her attention. He stood close to his Queen, holding his handgun and blade in either fist. His eyes were hooded, and Clarke could hear his voice in her head, smell the stench of his breath, coppery and sour.

The wounds on her back felt as if they had reopened, or had been made new. Months dissipated and she didn't feel like a leader anymore. She felt like a prisoner, hands bound above her head as her blood mingled with the stoned floor beneath her feet.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, like some caged, feral thing. She wanted to kill the Ice Queen, yes. But something in her screamed for the blood of this man. This tormentor. She wanted him dead, as surely as she wanted her people kept breathing.

"Clarke!"

She whipped her head around, and caught sight of Bellamy with his gun raised to the Scouts beyond her. She dropped to her knees, just as he unleashed a torrent of bullets tearing through the air above her head. She pulled up her own weapon and fired it, ears ringing, sweat pooling in her palms and making her grip slick.

They returned fire, and Clarke dove to the side. She army-crawled over debris, pieces of broken wood and stone digging into her elbows. A flash of pain ripped over her hip, but she dismissed it.

In the distance, Scouts fell. Grounders fell. They crashed into each other like waves, breaking, a roaring storm. Clarke caught the gleam of wet blades doused and dripping in scarlet.

She narrowed her tearing eyes, swallowing the urge to cough. It was bedlam around her, and she squinted through the smoke, trying to locate the Ice Queen. But her gaze swept over the doors and returned to them, on the opposite end of the camp, still open. If the Ice Queen managed escape, that was the end. Of the camp. Of them all.

"Bellamy!" Clarke turned back, to where she'd last glimpsed him, mowing down the first few Ice Scouts. She caught his eyes. "The doors!"

He looked at them himself, and he backed away from the pandemonium.

Clarke returned her attention to the phalanx of Ice Scouts-just as something flashed and buried itself into the closest Scout's chest.

An arrow.

Clarke looked back, behind Bellamy, and she caught the silhouette of a familiar figure. Lincoln stood beyond two pillars of flame, bow in hand. Arrows whistled through the air, seeking targets, filling bodies. But Clarke couldn't spare a second to feel relief at seeing him alive.

Bellamy motioned to him, gesturing towards the entrance. Lincoln nodded curtly, casting one look at Octavia fighting on the sidelines, before the havoc claimed him and he disappeared through the heart of it.

Clarke turned back to the flanks of Scouts, still searching, desperation raking her her spine like nails.

There.

She raised her gun as her eyes caught a flash of red, hidden at the center of her guards; the Queen, the Coward.

 _If you don't kill her,_ Octavia's words rang in her mind, _we all die_.

Clarke aimed.

And something collided against her, knocking the gun from her hand. She turned, just as a force slammed down on her, pain erupting over her cheek. She looked up, and the air in her lungs seemed to dissolve.

The Ice Scout stood before her, the one she knew, the one that had committed himself to her memory. Images flipped through her mind; torture chambers, blades coated in blood. _Her_ blood. She recalled with perfect clarity his pointed jaw. His thin mouth. His brown eyes that weren't molten or enticing like Bellamy's, but lifeless and blood-filled as the dirt.

He lifted a hand again, and Clarke managed to roll out of the way, just as his own gun came down again. She groped for her gun but the Ice Scout was ahead of her. A boot came down on her wrist and Clarke heard a sickening crunch.

Her stomach churned and stars danced in her vision.

Clarke willed herself to stay clear-headed, and moved away, back, back, keeping her eyes on _him_.

He sauntered forward, that poisonous gaze watching her intently.

Many people had wanted Clarke dead before. She'd glimosed it in their eyes, that flash of hunger, of desire, of predatory instinct to eradicate the perceived threat.

But this wasn't the look of someone simply wanting to protect his people. There was a hideous gleam in dark eyes, malformed expression that told her he wanted to make this last. He wanted her anguish and more than that, he wanted to be the one to inflict it.

Clarke tried to make a move for her gun. But he was there in an instant, much closer with his blade raised in his other grip. She dove to the right, just as it flashed down, cutting open the earth beside her. Clarke grasped a handful of dirt and ash with her good hand, and threw it in his face.

The Scout hissed out a breath. he scratched at his eyes and Clarke didn't wait. Didn't use the chance to get away. Instead, she hooked her arms around his neck and brought her knee up-into his gut. There was a sharp gasp followed by a roar of anger, all pretenses and facades of unfeeling gone.

Hands went around her and the world turned sideways as her back slammed against the ground, knocking the breath out of her lungs. She gawped, like a fish out of water with the cold fingers still on her, pressing into her. They reached rapaciously for her damaged wrist-and twisted.

An explosion of dark stars erupted across her vision, constellations taunting unconsciousness, and for one terrifying second, Clarke was blind.

A hand grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling her close and her vision cleared just in time to stare into those dark eyes, just inches away from her own.

She couldn't breathe and Clarke was torn between the fear and the rage mounting in her, a torrential fire that sparked inside until she was burning, turning to ash.

The Scout leaned closer, until she could make out the golden flecks in his irises and when he spoke, it was just as dark. Just as cold as she remembered it to be.

"You have no idea how much I wanted to be the one to stop your heart," he murmured, lips cutting a grin. "But not before you got see the fate you've delivered to your people. This is their blood soaking the ground. And it won't stop. I won't stop, until every last one of them is dead." That ghoulish smile broadened. "I will show the Clans, the entire world what happens when you are suicidal enough to think you can fight against us. What happens if you try. And I assure you, some of your people's death will be swift, but others...I will draw it out. And you know how patient I can be."

Clarke's body shook, but her voice was steady, belying the death and destruction that surged around them. "I'm so close, though," she said, "enough to see that the Ice Nation has its rare moments of fear. And for a few of them, you feared me. Your feared my people. And I want you to get used to that because now everyone will know; that even the Ice Nation can be broken."

A different kind of fire kindled in those eyes, obsidian, black. His grip suddenly moved from her shirt, to her throat, and the air abandoned her.

Clarke gasped, but nothing came and she tried to kick, to tear the flesh off his bones with her nails if that's what it took. She pushed the heels of her hands against his face, digging her fingers into his skin as deeply as she could. She felt his blood trickle between her fingers.

His grip loosened for a breath, enough for Clarke to kick again and this time, it forced his grip off her altogether. She hit the ground hard, but stumbled back quickly. It still wasn't enough and his expression turned into something she couldn't describe, something that definitely wasn't human and was more monster than man.

He raised his blade, and the edge of it grinned widely at her, excited to be reacquainted.

It tickled the air over her, just as a shot rang out and a stillness came over the Scout. He stared at her. Then another shot tore through the air, striking through his chest. Another bullet. Another. He shuddered with the force of them, staring off into nothing before dropping to his knees. His hold loosened on the sword, and it clattered to the ground.

A second passed and Clarke didn't move. Then she turned in the direction of the gunfire and glimpsed Bellamy, a sputtering flame reflected in his eyes.

His gaze met hers.

And then his shoulder seemed to rupture, droplets of scarlet spraying from the sudden gunshot wound.

Clarke felt her insides contract. She dove for the fallen Ice Scout's gun just as Bellamy tried to raise his own again, but a second shot was issued from the cacophony of crisscrossing gunfire, and this one went through his knee.

The pain of the wound made his leg buckle, and Clarke grabbed onto the weapon, her wrist screaming in pain, and fired blindly.

She felt a bullet chafe her cheek, but she didn't feel it, firing one round, two, looking back at Bellamy, returning to the remaining Scouts in front of her.

More gunfire broke through the air and from her peripheral vision, Clarke saw Bellamy duck, clutching his other shoulder in his hand. A new wound. He held on to his gun, but she could see the rivulets of red there, staining through his clothes and roping down his arms. She didn't need to look closely to see that the brachial nerve had been severed.

Her simmering anger was replaced by desperation and above that, Clarke couldn't deny the fear that lit in her chest and gripped greedily at her heart.

More Scouts and soldiers poured around them, the mass of them blackening out the Grounders like a closing curtain. There were too many of them and they flooded around the camp, dropping more bodies.

The few war cries left turned into screams. The explosions ceased their rampage and Clarke looked back at Bellamy, Just for a moment, just to see.

It was only for a second, but it gave a nearby Scout enough time to lurch forward and grab her arm, so hard his fingers broke the first layer of skin. She tried to raise her gun, but her wrist protested and against her violation, her hand dropped the weapon. It hit the dirt at her feet.

Clarke was pulled back, away from her people and dragged towards the swell of black. She caught the sight of Bellamy, expression mirroring the terror she felt in her own, and tried to wrestle the hands away.

But the cold click of a gun made her still. The barrel of it pressed to her throat, cold and hard. She could feel her pulse hammer against it.

"You've caused quite the uproar," a feminine voice sneered behind Clarke, close to her ear. She felt the heat of breath waft against her cheek.

Something snarled inside her-something ferocious and deadly, but Clarke remained stoic, made very aware of the gun at her throat. One wrong move, and her blood would decorate the Ice Queen behind her, in crimson badges of honor she'd reaped in this war.

The battle still raged around them, but it seemed distant to Clarke, and she sought out Bellamy, still on his knees with sweat beading on his forehead. Blood flowed down his shoulder in a steady, thin river and he clutched his gun. It shook violently in his hand but he managed to hold onto it, aimed at the Ice Queen. Aimed at her.

The sight was like a punch in the gut and Clarke tried to think through her rising panic. But even she could hear the sound of her own people ringing in her ears. Their screams were wavering, losing strength as they were being snuffed out; they were the heartbeat of Tondc; slowing and threatening to stop.

The Ice Queen tightened her hold on Clarke, bending back her wrist until more dots vaulted up in her vision. "You only have one shot," she mused, words directed at Bellamy. "And you will miss."

Her voice sent a shiver down Clarke's spine. It was too cold, too unfeeling, and like all members of her Nation, too dark to be human. Their leader didn't just have blood on her hands, she was covered in it, drowning in red and yet she still seemed unbothered, as if she weren't treading it like water.

The Ice Queen pushed the barrel harder against Clarke's throat. "If you aren't convinced of your loss yet, I would encourage you to accept it. No one else is coming. My men have surrounded your Mountain and are already killing whatever guards that have managed to worm their way through as we speak."

Tremors made Clarke's hands quake at her sides and her vision seemed to be cast in a reddish hue. But she could do nothing, except watch and wait. She could only stare at Bellamy, hoping he'd see the message in her eyes. Knowing he'd understand if he did.

The Queen's tone turned heckling. "Don't you see? Your hands are tied. At worst, you kill your Commander in vain, and condemn your people to death. Or..." she trailed off and Clarke could hear the pleasure in her voice. "We could settle on a different arrangement."

 _No,_ Clarke thought, urging Bellamy with her eyes. _Take the shot!_

Bellamy glanced between her and the Queen, his expression unreadable. "What arrangement?"

Clarke didn't see it, but she felt the Ice Queen's smile, a wolfish smirk splitting across her mouth. "Surrender. You give me what I want, and I let most of your people live. For now. I will spare them as an...as an act of kindness." The word sounded foreign on her tongue.

Bellamy didn't lower the gun. "And her?"

The taunting ceased, replaced by a cold malice that promised blood. "There has to be some repercussions for everything. The damage your people have caused..." the Ice Queen trailed off. "She trespassed onto my territory. Played spy. Escaped. Destroyed our firearms. All transgressions that call for lives as payment."

Clarke expected to feel some sense of fear at the prospect of death, but she didn't. It had become a constant in her life on the ground, lingering just beyond her point of vision, always there, always reminding her. But now it was in her line of sight as Clarke took everything in with an almost blatant clarity:

Bellamy couldn't make the shot, not with his injury, and if he tried, the attempted assassination would only change this war into an execution, and one that wouldn't end until every one of her people lay dead around them.

Bellamy shook his head, gun nearly falling out of his grip, but he clung to it with white, bloodless fingers. "If you kill her, the Grounders-"

"Yes," the Ice Queen interjected. "They will have no Commander. They will follow their moral code of conduct and become sitting ducks in a frozen pond. Sooner or later, they will be picked off and perhaps in a few months, The Woods People will cease to be. But it is still a mercy; choose to live for now, and die another day."

Clarke shook her head, but the gun was pushed harder, until it dug painfully into the flesh just beneath her jaw. The sound of battle seemed to fade from her and she watched in silence as blood was spilled, until she was sure the dirt could hold no the corner of her eye, Clarke saw only a sea of black gear. A couple screams, the popping of gunfire. She thought she spotted Octavia somewhere beyond her line of vision, battling against two Ice Scouts. Losing.

"But take the shot if you will," The Ice Queen went on. Something crept over her shoulder and fingers snaked up, through Clarke's hair and they yanked her head back. Pain lanced down her scalp and a strained breath sawed through her lips. "Perhaps a swift death will be doing her a favor."

Clarke glimpsed the fight in Bellamy's eyes. His usually unwavering strength, slowly flickering out. He stole cursory glances around them, as he tried to devise some sort of strategy. A caged animal searching for a way out. But then his attention landed on his sister, fighting for her life. _Everyone_ of their people was fighting for their life, and he had no resolve to crumble beneath because Clarke could see it so perfectly this time, etched in the lines of his face; he didn't know what to do.

 _I won't be put in that position._

Tears suddenly stung Clarke's eyes and her vision blurred. She wanted him to make the shot, to _try,_ but something deep inside of her refused to let him. No. She wouldn't make him choose. She wouldn't have him carry that burden.

Clarke's hand reached out and she grabbed the gun.

The body restraining her objected, pushing the barrel harder into her. The chill of it kissing her skin turned to a bite, and something wet trickled down her neck. _Good._

Clarke grappled with it, pressing her fingers over the Ice Queen's and taking aim of the gun herself. She forced the barrel down from her throat-closer to her own heart, until it teased the flesh just above. She looked at Bellamy.

 _Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

And pulled the trigger.


	27. Ashes, Ashes

**THIS IS IT. Oh the humanity. What am I supposed to do with my life now? *Sigh.* This is the last chapter, Guys. I hope I do it justice. And I hope it doesn't sound choppy or too abrupt. Any questions you have will be answered in an AN I'll post next, in addition with my TOTAL GRATEFULNESS at all you readers. I love you. Please enjoy.**

It had begun to rain. Over the course of the battle, the sky had gone from a sickly blue to a fitful grey, and the clouds gave in, releasing a sheet of tears. They dampened Bellamy's hair and mixed with his blood, but he didn't care. He didn't even feel it. He couldn't see anything beyond Clarke and the Ice Queen, lying still in the dirt.

Bellamy moved, ignoring the pain that stabbed at his knees and shoulders. He used his gun for support, pulling himself up and stumbled forward, one step, another. To his distant surprise, no Scout nearby tried to grab him. No Ice Soldier fired their weapon. They surrounded him, still and resolute as ghostly statues.

Octavia beat him there, kneeling over their Ice Queen. She felt around for some sign of life, pulse, holding her finger beneath the woman's nose. When she came up empty, she glanced at the Ice Scouts, and made the announcement.

Their Queen was dead.

Then Octavia turned to Clarke, whose face had gone ashen and pale. Bellamy's leg nearly buckled beneath him again, but he forced himself forward, until he was close enough. He dropped down, breath leaving him in a painful gasp.

Octavia felt for a pulse. "She's alive. Just missed her heart."

Bellamy unzipped Clarke's coat, throwing off what few pieces of protective gear she'd had on. "That's because she wasn't aiming for it," he replied. "I need something to staunch the bleeding." He heard the desperation clawing in his voice, but he spoke evenly. His hands tremored as he clamped a hand over Clarke's wound, but blood found its way through, bubbling up between his fingers until his hand was coated in red. "O!"

Octavia ripped something from her and gave the wad of cloth to Bellamy. He snatched it from her and replaced his hand with it. "We need to get her to Mount Weather."

"Yeah," Octavia agreed. "But we won't be able to make it through if they still have men over there attacking us." She stood up abruptly, gun in hand, and fired a few rounds in the air. They seemed more deafening in the abating war.

"Your Leader is _dead_!" she shouted again, louder over the swell of Ice Scouts. "Lay down your weapons! And one of you," she brandished her own gun towards one of them and spoke in a voice carved from steel. "Go inform the rest of your people."

Bellamy hadn't known what to expect, and as the soldiers stood there for another moment, a terrifying fear rose inside him, one that whispered the possibility Luna had been wrong, that killing their Queen made no difference, that they were now just waiting to die.

But the hiss of swords and blades falling from their hands to the ground echoed around them, glinting dully against the dirt. Minutes seemed to trickle away as swords fell with the rain, essential minutes that Bellamy didn't know what to do with. Everything inside him screamed to get Clarke out of here, to make sure she _lived_ and he was about to do just that, when one Ice Scout grabbed something around his neck. Bellamy stared first in alarm, then in confusion, as he brought something small and cylindrical to his lips.

A moment later, the man began to convulse, a violent tremor shuddering down his frame. Then he dropped, eyes glazing over before he collapsed beside his weapons.

"No," Bellamy whispered.

But it was a chain reaction, a domino effect, that knocked down Scout after Scout, soldier after soldier, and Bellamy watched as waves of them crumpled, like a high tide returning back out to sea. For some reason, the sight reminded him of a morbid child's rhyme he'd overheard on the Ark, sung by hand-holding kids skipping happily in circles.

 _Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._

* * *

Bellamy didn't have the luxury of pacing. He couldn't walk well on his leg and he'd require rehabilitation on his arm, but that was nothing compared to sitting outside the Med-bay, and _waiting_ for someone to come out of the doors, for the bearing of bad news or good news.

They'd made it back to Mount Weather after the area had been deemed clear, and it was nearly identical to Tondc, the grounds beside the Mountain covered in fallen Ice Soldiers, bent over like weeds. He'd walked through them and banged on the door, until his somewhat decent hand had become bloodied and torn from the force of it. Then they'd been led inside. Clarke had been taken both of them to the Med-bay.

About halfway through his stitches and bandaging, he'd heard a flatline sound from the other room and he'd started to run as best he could, to the glass window down the hall. Beyond it was Clarke, lying on a table with a defibrillator paddles being pressed to her chest. Her body had jolted with the force of volts, electrifying her insides. Once. Twice. Then he'd slammed his good hand against the glass until the stitches had reopened.

 _"Again!"_ he'd screamed at Abby, standing over the body of her daughter. _"Do it again!"_

A third time. _"Clarke, come on!"_

The paddles were removed and Abby had shouted something that sounded like _adrenaline. S_ omeone handed her a syringe. Then she plunged it down, straight into her daughter's heart.

A horrific moment had passed when nothing happened. But Clarke suddenly jolted up, eyes flying open. Abby had called out orders and her assistant fettled around Clarke. But the fear in Abby's eyes had minimized which offered Bellamy marginal comfort. That was when he'd become aware of the shaking. His core seemed to tremor inside, knocking around his soul, and he'd slid to the floor, his leg no longer able to keep him upright.

That's where the man who'd been in the process of bandaging him up found him, and tried to coax him back down the hall to finish.

 _"You're going to do it right here,"_ he'd told him. And there was something in his voice that the man must've heard, because he seemed to think it unwise to argue.

Which now left Bellamy in the same position, other than the chair he'd been given, nearly a day later. Clarke was still in surgery and the doors had remained unopened for hours, to the point he felt sure he was going to bang on that window again. But exhaustion had kept him from moving much since. Pain still radiated up his leg and arms, effective in keeping him from resting. He'd refused the painkillers offered to him; the last thing he wanted was to miss something important just because he was high on morphine.

But he was beginning to feel disoriented. His vision was starting to blur and he almost didn't notice the familiar person approaching until they stood right next to him. Octavia cast a glance to the door. "How's she doing?" She asked, in a tone purposefully passive.

Bellamy shook his head. "I don't know."

He felt her eyes on him. "How are you doing?"

He shrugged as best he could with one partially lame arm and another wounded one. "I've been better," he said, but the usual teasing in his voice was gone. Now it was like a cavern, hollow and echoic to his own ears.

"This is Clarke, Bell," Octavia said. "She'll pull through."

Bellamy looked over at is little sister, cuts and bruises marring her face and arms. A lump seemed to rise in his throat and his vision blurred again, this time with unshed tears. Octavia caught sight of it and she wrapped her arms around him, careful of his injuries, but he didn't care.

"She's going to be okay," Octavia repeated.

Bellamy's voice fell, until it was just above a whisper. "I love her, O."

For a moment, his sister didn't reply. Then she let out a quiet breath, almost amused, almost relieved. "And finally, he sees it."

* * *

Something bright stung her eyes. It toyed just beyond them, casting her lids in a reddish glow. She tried to remember how to open them, as if it hadn't been a long time since she'd done so.

Clarke blinked up, and was greeted by a large orb of light, as if a bit of the sun had been pulled from its perch and strung there. For a second, Clarke wondered if she were dead. But she doubted death was lit by fluorescent bulbs and searched her mind for understanding, fingering through her memories like files.

Blood. Voices. The shock of a bullet punching through her chest.

She sucked in a breath and jerked up, the movement issuing a burst of pain that radiated from her chest.

"Hey, easy, Princess," a familiar voice sounded beside her, and a strong hand went to her arm. "Take it slow."

A surge of emotion welled up in her throat and she felt her lips parted in surprise as she stared up at Bellamy, sitting in a chair beside the bed she rested on. She couldn't discern the plethora of feelings that flickered through her. But there was one that roared above all the rest, and that was the relief she felt, reflecting in his eyes. He was alive. Given, he didn't look the best; shadows were painted beneath his eyes and his face seemed to lack the usual color. One arm was in a sling and the other was bandaged. She spotted a pair of crutches resting against the wall, but that all paled in comparison to the simple fact he was alive.

"You're okay," she murmured, as if to say it just to say it; to ensure its authenticity.

Bellamy offered her a slight smile. "So are you. Which is no surprise to anyone; you're too stubborn to die." He said it jokingly, but there was an undertone of something dark there, coursing just beneath the surface.

Before Clarke could address it, her thoughts turned back to ones of the war, her memories still murky but gaining clarity. More blood. The shattered sound of gunfire. _Perhaps a swift death will be doing her a favor._

Clarke tried to sit up again. "What happened? Did it...did it work?" After all, she assumed something must have, otherwise they both undoubtedly would be dead.

He gently pushed her back down, until her head returned to the pillow. "Yeah," he said. "It worked."

Clarke sensed no pride from him. Nothing short of simple appeasement that they had survived. On the contrary, Bellamy sounded distant, his voice haunted.

"How many?" She asked. No elaboration was needed.

A shadow bloomed over his eyes. "Around three hundred. Kane lost half the Guard."

Clarke sucked in a breath. Three hundred dead. Three hundred bodies that littered the ground around a then-burning camp, now surely reduced to ashes.

"And the Ice Soldiers? What happened to the Scouts?"

A muscle flexed in his jaw. "Mass suicide."

Clarke felt herself gape at him. She couldn't keep the horror out of her expression and didn't bother to try. Yet another thing she'd underestimated The Ice Nation capable of. They weren't just loyal; they were brainwashed, indoctrinated even to the point of their own demise. Clarke wondered just how far you'd have to go to do something that depraved and she felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction in having killed their Queen. But just as quickly as the feeling came, it was gone.

"There's something else, Clarke," Bellamy said and trepidation unfurled inside her. "They recovered Indra, but her injuries..." He gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

Clarke swallowed. It was true that she hadn't gotten along with the Grounder Chief, but she'd respected the woman who had done what she could for her people and who had given her life for them in the end.

"And the children?" Clarke added, almost hesitantly.

This time, Bellamy nodded in reassurance. "Safe. They may have to stay here for a little while longer, until Tondc is up and functioning again."

Sudden anxiety mounted in her chest. "Are there enough, though?" she asked. _Enough Grounders to reclaim it?_

"You're still their leader, Clarke," he told her, his hand falling from her arm and to her hand. He gripped it gently but firmly in his own. "They'll depend on you now more than ever. Especially after what you've shown them."

She smirked. "Every leader should be willing to die for their people."

"But you were running a risk," Bellamy countered. "There was no certainty that it would work. This all could've been a trap. It could've just as easily been a rumor _they_ started to entrap people. But you still took that chance. " He cupped the side of her cheek and smiled. "You didn't give up. Not even then. And that, Clarke, is one of the things I love about you."

Her breath hitched at the mention of the word and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. "Bellamy, I-"

The door to the Med-bay suddenly opened, cutting her off. Clarke looked up, and met her mother's relieved gaze.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," Abby told her, coming forward and stopping beside her. She ran a hand through her daughter's hair. "I've been in the infirmary around the clock."

Clarke frowned. "Around the clock...? How long have I been out?"

"Nearly three days," Abby answered.

Clarke's eyes widened in disbelief. " _Three days?"_ She asked and again, attempted to push passed Bellamy's arms. "I have to get back. I have to-"

"I think winning a war and nearly dying, earns you a few days off," Bellamy said. "There are still things that need to be taken care of here."

He was right; the Sky people had suffered a detrimental loss with half its Guard. They still occupied Mount Weather and they had to decide whether they would remain here or return to Camp Jaha. If Camp Jaha was still left in one piece. But that still left one last thing that Clarke needed to know of.

"Luna's people," she breathed. "Are they still in the Ice Nation? They need to be let out."

"A team was already assembled to recover them," Bellamy answered calmly. She let out a relieved sigh and gave him a grateful smile. Then she returned her attention to her mother. "Will there be a meeting?" Clarke asked.

"No," Said Abby. "Kane considered putting things to a vote on staying here, but I discouraged the idea. I think our people have been inside walls long enough."

Clark agreed full-heartedly. The people from the sky hadn't come to Earth just to switch it for another Ark. And as of three days ago, as of the moment Clarke pulled that trigger, the ground had become safe again. She wouldn't bask in that for long, though. Threats were still out there, unbeknownst of Camp Jaha, or the advantages it held. But they'd learn soon enough, and Clarke doubted any one of her people had seen the last of war.

"We still need to get back," Clarke told Abby and then her gaze flickered to Bellamy. "Soon. I want to start out next week."

"Clarke," her mother's tone was disapproving. "You were shot. You need to rest." She laid a hand on her shoulder, as if to hold her to there.

Clarke smiled at her, but shook her head. "I'll rest at Tondc. But I have to, Mom. They're my people." Those words came freely now, no longer weighted by commitment or fear or even obligation. Instead, they offered Clarke strength. Those were the same people she'd stood beside and fought for. She'd bled for them, and had been willing to die to save them.

"That is," she added, looking back at Bellamy. "If you're still my Second. Kane may need you here, especially with half the Guard gone."

But Bellamy just scoffed. "I don't know how essential an injured guard who can't walk would be to him, Clarke. Doesn't mean I can't help out, but I'm not coming back. I'm going with you."

Clarke couldn't help but smile at that.

Abby clearly sensed something personal brewing between the two, because she kissed Clarke's temple and excused herself, having to return to the infirmary. Clarke watched her go, still staring at the glass door even after it had shut.

"You sure about this?" Clarke asked him, finally returning her gaze to his face. But the look she found there surprised her. The one she'd last glimpsed, confused and scared in the midst of battle and impossible choice was gone. Now returned the one she knew; strong and unyielding, the emotion playing in his eyes a force to be reckoned with.

"Do you really have to ask?"

She grinned. "Guess not. But at least this time, you won't have to worry about Octavia sneaking out. I imagine she'll be busy at Tondc. Also," she shrugged. "What you said about Indra...I've decided to offer the position of Grounder Chief to Lincoln. If he'll take it. He'd make a great advisor and it would be good for the people if they have him to look up to."

"I think that's a good idea," Bellamy said. "But could we stop talking about plans for just a second? There's something I need to do."

Clarke gave him a quizzical look. "What-?"

But Bellamy just ducked his head down, until he was kissing her. Fire leapt up in her chest and one of her hands snaked up around his neck. Her fingers wove through his curly hair, and she didn't even care that he smelled of sweat and blood.

She felt him smile against her lips. "I love you, Clarke," he whispered, and that fire consumed her entirety, burning up the pain in her chest until there was nothing left. How it happened, when it happened, Clarke still wasn't sure. But she was done trying to figure it out; it didn't matter. What mattered was the man she clung to, the constant in her life of unpredictability and death. But he was alive, and so was she. And for now that was enough.

"I love you, too, Bellamy Blake."

* * *

The week passed by slowly. Thanks to reports and collective updates, Clarke understood the extent of damage done to Tondc. Most of the houses had burnt and the doors would need reconstructing. What food had been locked in storage was now charred ruins and they hadn't managed to clear even half the bodies yet. Perhaps it would've been easier to make camp somewhere else. It would definitely be a solution to avoid unsanitary concerns, but Clarke knew the Grounders wouldn't go, which left clearing out the corpses as a must. It would be tantamount to the disposal of the Mountain Men-maybe more, because Clarke still didn't have an estimation of how many Ice soldiers there were.

Disgust welled inside her at the thought.

In addition to that concern, winter was still approaching, which added a time bomb to Tondc. It was all the more reason she had to get back; if things weren't rectified quickly, they'd need to seek different shelter, and Clarke bristled at what option that would leave. She didn't resent Mount Weather anymore, but nothing inside her was eager to return to it.

When the following week drew to a close, Abby again tried to convince Clarke to stay a little longer, but she refused. So by the time mid afternoon rolled around, nearly two weeks later, Clark walked from the huge circular door and onto the ground, dew frosted over and painting patchworks of ice over the ground.

The cart that had taken the children from Tondc now occupied the area beside them, and kids between all ages flocked back to it. Some were smiling and Clarke couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for them, for those who wouldn't be embraced by their mother or father. Some were orphans now, just like Tyrell's son, who sat unsmiling in the back corner.

Lincoln and Octavia stood nearby and though they still held weapons, there was a looseness in their hold. The worries of being attacked were minimal and all it had taken was three hundred lives and the possible massacre of an entire settlement, done by their own hand. But people had still come out with their lives, and unlike previous casualties, the children had been spared.

Before leaving, Clarke hugged Abby once more, then clambered onto the horse Lincoln had brought back. Her wound burned when she moved, and Clarke could still feel the echo of the bullet inside her chest. It had been pulled from her on the operation table, but it left its mark nonetheless, in a pitifully small scar a few inches below her collarbone.

When they left behind Mount Weather, the discomfort of the bullet wound seemed to grow more noticeable the closer they trekked to Tondc, along with her apprehension, until they were indistinguishable from each other. The last time Clarke had seen the sky above the camp, it had been grey. But the smoke was gone now, the traces of it ever having been there in the first place wiped from existence. The ghosts of flames seemed to leap up beside her and Clarke could still hear the screams that rose in volume with each mile, but this wasn't Camp Jaha, and this time, she would not run away.

Evening had just begun to set in when the statue finally broke into view, still standing stall and unperturbed as if it hadn't witnessed a war. But around, there were no remnants of one. The rain had washed out the earth's cuts, taking with it the blood of battle.

Clarke drew in a deep breath and eased her way off the horse.

"Together?" Bellamy asked beside her, eyeing the camp that stood just before them.

Clarke stared ahead and wove her fingers through his. "Together."


	28. Author's Note

**I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH. Thank you to everyone who read this. Seriously. To have this feedback is...amazing.**

 **Quick question. I DO plan on writing another 100 Fanfiction, based on an alternate version. I don't want to give too much away, but I plan to post it shortly and was wondering if you guys would be interested in it. (And yes, there's more Bellarke cuz they my ship, Guys.)**

 **But I just want to say THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. I love you guys. I love that you loved this and the fact you say I'm a talented writer means the WORLD.**

 **But it this isn't the end! (I hate endings.)**


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